Cat Spitting Mad by Shirley Rousseau Murphy

outside investigator.
    And how had Gedding come up with a candidate so fast?
    The cats had thought there was mutual trust here. Joe had heard Harper tell Clyde, more than once, how Gedding had stood by him when the mayor or city council meddled in police business.
    What bothered Joe was, one council member had pushed hard to hire Gedding. And that man wanted Harper out of the department. So where did Gedding’s loyalties lie?
    â€œGarza’s brother-in-law,” Gedding said, “is chief U.S. probation officer in San Francisco. I believe Wilma Getz worked with him before she retired. Garza’s niece—she’s the interior designer that KateOsborne works for. But you know the family—they have a weekend cottage in the village. Kate and Hanni, when they were small, used to play together.”
    â€œI know who they are,” Harper said stiffly. “Should I say, small world, ” he added dryly.
    Gedding shrugged and straightened the papers on his desk. “Have you made any other arrangements?”
    â€œWhen your man arrives, Ray and Davis are prepared to step off the case, if he so chooses. I’ve put Lieutenant Brennan in charge of the department.
    â€œAs for my personal life, I don’t plan to stay at home. I’ve taken my horses up to Campbell Ranch, they’ll keep them ridden. As long as I live alone and isolated, there’ll be a shadow on my activities. I’m locking up my place and moving in with Clyde. Unless,” Harper said with a twisted smile, “unless you plan to put a leg bracelet on me.”
    Joe Grey felt his belly lurch. Though Harper was joking, the thought of an electronic monitor made him twitch. If Harper had to phone the station for permission to walk out his front door, he might as well be locked in a steel kennel.
    It was noon when Harper left Gedding’s office, now on official leave. The cats were about to slip out through the window when Gedding made a long-distance call; they subsided again, beneath the potted fern.
    Gedding was apparently talking with the chief of police in San Francisco. It was all very low-key. Gedding was as nice as pie; apparently he and Chief Barron went back to college days. Barron seemed to be telling him that Garza was busy on a case and suggesting he send another man. Gedding was gently insistent. He wanted Garza, badly needed Garza. It was a long and oblique discussion that left the cats fidgeting. It ended, apparently, with San Francisco’s assurance that Garza was on his way.
    â€œMost informative,” Joe muttered as they hurried out along the parking lot.
    â€œInformative, and confusing. Look. Harper’s still here.”
    In the parking lot shared by the courthouse and police headquarters, Harper was putting some cardboard boxes in his king cab pickup; the cats could see a pair of field boots sticking out from the top and a gray sweatshirt.
    â€œHe’s cleaned out his desk,” Dulcie whispered.
    â€œDulcie, don’t be concerned about Harper. No creeping lowlife is going to get the best of Max Harper.”
    He wished he believed that.
    Dropping the box and the boots in the truck bed, Harper closed the canvas cover. He looked more than tired. The minute he drove off, the cats trotted down to Ocean and over to Moreno’s Bar and Grill, where Harper was headed.
    Padding down the narrow alley past Moreno’s front door, they slipped in through the screened kitchen door, pawing it open behind the backs of a cook and two busboys. Past the bar into the restaurant, and through the shadows to the far corner, to Clyde and Harper’s usual booth. Sliding beneath the table unseen, they cringed away from Clyde’s size tens. The carpet smelled like stale French fries.
    â€œThe horseshoes,” Clyde was saying. “Your mendidn’t find any more tracks made with the cut shoe? Didn’t find anything on the trail that could have cut the shoes like