Not One Clue_ A Mystery - Lois Greiman [75]
Nothing mind-bending jumped into my head.
It was dark when I reached home. But at least my security light was on, making me feel somewhat … secure.
Solberg’s Porsche was conspicuously absent. For a moment I was giddy with the thought that I might have Laney to myself, but then I remembered they were spending the night visiting wineries with his parents. She wouldn’t be home until the following day, but when I stepped into the foyer the house felt funny. Occupied.
A noise rustled from the back of the house. It almost sounded like a door closing.
“Harley?” I called.
He didn’t come wiggling out to greet me.
“Hello?”
No one answered me. The hair was standing up on the nape of my neck. I backed toward the door, and then I heard Harlequin whimper.
26
Cats, you can’t train ’em and you can’t eat ’em.
—Harlequin
Every sensible instinct in me told me to run for my car, to duck and cover, to escape, but the Mace was dangling from my key ring, and damnit, I love that stupid-ass drooly dog.
“Who’s there?” My voice warbled a little on the high notes. “I’ve called the police,” I said, and stepped into the living room. It was entirely trashed. All of my worldly possessions were strewn about the space. My hands were shaking in earnest now. I was trying to punch in 911 as I spoke, but it’s difficult when you’re trembling like a maraca. My index finger skittered off the nine and then something crashed. The phone dropped from my hand as I screamed and jerked toward the right. My Mace was, miraculously, at the ready. But Harley was already scooting back behind the couch, scared by the lamp he’d just broken and my best slasher-film shriek.
I stood frozen for several seconds, felt the emptiness of the house throb around me like a living pulse, and hurried to the couch. One end had been pulled away from the wall, cushions scattered. Harlequin, it seemed, had had the good sense to wedge his big body behind it.
Mace still in hand, I dropped to my knees and crooned his name. He remained as he was, in a full-body shake, and refused to come out. So finally I rose on my own shaky legs and went to the other end of the couch. Pulling it away from the wall, I called to him. He looked up at me with droopy eyes, then crawled forward, belly on the floor, nails spread as he dragged himself forward.
I held my breath as I skimmed him for blood, but there was none that I could see. Creeping forward, he plopped his trembling head onto my knees and closed his eyes with a sigh. I ran my hand along his bony head and down his back. There was a swelling over his ribs. He whimpered when I touched it.
Something banged. I jerked around, and dropped the Mace just as Rivera lurched into the room, Glock ready.
“Get out!” he ordered.
“Harlequin’s—”
“Take him with you.”
Anger was beginning to overtake the terror in my system, and I considered arguing, but if truth be told, I kind of wanted to get the hell out of Dodge.
Retrieving my Mace, I rose to my feet and called Harley as I headed toward the door. He glanced longingly back at the space between the couch and the wall but slunk dutifully after me.
We were in the Saturn in a matter of seconds, doors locked. Harley turned around in the passenger seat, then draped himself across the emergency brake to lay his head in my lap. I stroked his ears and stared at the front door of my house as if it might implode at any given second. A few minutes had passed when an unmarked cop car pulled up to the curb. Two men got out carrying bags that looked like souped-up attaché cases.
I remained where I was, waiting for the tremors to stop. After a couple of lifetimes, the plainclothes guys exited, leaving Rivera alone in the doorway. He looked pissed as hell.
I swallowed my fear, gave