Leann Sweeney

He removed his hand from beneath Marian Mae’s and sipped his coffee before answering. “Of course not. You visit who you want. But I’d appreciate it if you call me rather than Candace if you hear anything interesting concerning the case.”

“Is Candy having one of her evidence obsession seizures?” Marian Mae said with a laugh.

Baca said, “Mae, we’ve talked about this. She’s a good cop. But sometimes—” He glanced at me. “Nothing more needs to be said—just that I’m running this investigation, not her. Got that, Jillian?”

“Got it.” But I didn’t exactly like it. He should be grateful he had such a dedicated and intelligent woman working for him. “Sorry I can’t visit. I need to get home,” I said.

I offered a polite good-bye and then turned to leave. But even with my back to the two of them, I couldn’t help hearing Marian Mae say, “You need to practice being more tactful, Mike.”

Gosh, wasn’t that the truth?

I spent the rest of the afternoon checking Flake Wilkerson’s newspapers—that is, when I wasn’t removing a cat, any cat, and all the cats from the table where’d I spread out the papers. Turned out Wilkerson had subscriptions to papers in surrounding towns as well as in Atlanta. I found only four circled names, including the first one I’d already unearthed. Three ads were people hunting for a lost cat, but those were more than a year old. The one that interested me was someone who was hoping to purchase a full-grown Abyssinian—like Syrah. That ad was only two weeks old.

I sat back in the teak chair, considering this. Why wouldn’t you get on the computer and search for breeders? Or put yourself on a list at the local shelters asking to be notified if any Abyssinians came up for adoption? Or even try Craigslist? There were always ads there for cats and dogs needing homes.

The only way to get answers to these questions was to phone the person who’d purchased the ad. Deep down, I wished the police would be the ones to make the call. But as long as Baca was focused on the money, that wouldn’t happen. As I opened my cell to call a stranger, I felt like this was something I must do, whether it was connected to the case or not.

The man who answered sounded very old. I practically had to yell into the phone for him to understand me. Then a woman came on the line and said, “Can’t you tell he doesn’t get what you’re saying? You selling something?”

I explained I was calling about the ad for the Abyssinian.

“We already have one on order—or so we thought,” the woman said. “It was supposed to be here day before yesterday, but I’m beginning to think poor Mr. Green’s been had.”

“Someone sold you a cat already?” I said.

“Had to make a cash down payment. Mr. Green handed the money over before I knew it. You got a cat to sell? Because we might need a backup.”

“No. But I’d sure like to talk to Mr. Green about who sold him this cat you have yet to see.”

“And why’s that?” She was sounding cautious now.

“There could be an explanation as to why he hasn’t gotten the cat he purchased. Please? Can I come and talk to him?”

“I don’t even know your name. And poor Mr. Green’s so fretful, I don’t think his heart—”

I heard the old man say, “Give me that phone,” heard the woman protest, but seconds later, Mr. Green was on the line again. “You holding my cat for ransom or something? You better bring me a new Banjo before the sun sets. I got that caller ID thingie, and this time your number came up. You’re not—”

“A new Banjo?” I said.

“That was his name. Banjo. And like I said—”

“Mr. Green,” I said gently, “I don’t have your cat. I can’t sell you a cat. But I might be able to share information with you that will help you understand what happened to your money—and you might be able to help me, too.”

“Then come on, ’cause I’ve had enough of this nonsense.” He rattled off an address, and it was a good thing I had the notepad with his number at hand so I could jot it down, because he hung up immediately.

Should I call Candace to go with me? I wondered, as I went for my car keys hanging on the hook by the back door. Nah. Surely I’d be safe with someone who sounded like he was twice my age.

But I stopped before I’d gone out the door and about-faced. I hurried to the office, where I keep my personal photos, thinking a four-by-six picture of Syrah might come in handy rather than the photos on my cell phone. I had a feeling Mr. Green might have as much trouble seeing as he did hearing.

Mercy is small enough to share an area code with Taylorville, five miles to the south. That was where Mr. Green lived, in a tiny white house between other houses that looked exactly like his.

The woman I’d spoken with on the phone answered the red-painted door at once. She was a dark-skinned black woman, and if not for her graying temples, I wouldn’t have been able to venture a guess whether she was under or over forty.