The Cats that Stole a Million (The Cats that . . . Cozy Mystery Book 7) by Karen Anne Golden Page B

back.”
    “But I didn’t see his truck.”
    “Wrecked it headin’ to Chicago.  Rented a Cadillac.”
    Stevie tried to hide his murderous feelings. 
    Loretta said, slurring her words, “I wrecked my car last month.”
    Stevie ignored her.  “Excuse me,” he said, walking away.  He headed for the back room, where his father, Sam, had his office.  Sam was talking to two other men Stevie didn’t recognize.  “I need a word,” he said abruptly.
    Sam looked surprised.  “Good evening, son,” he said, then addressed the two men, “We’re done here, right, fellas?  I’ll catch ya later.”
    The men got up, threw Stevie a curious look, and left.
    “Shut the door,” Sam yelled after them.  One stepped back and obliged.  After they left, Sam said, “Dave tells me you got your girl.  I bet you’re real happy about that?”
    Stevie was so angry, he couldn’t speak.  The muscles in his neck contracted, then he spit, “That man you shot in front of Katherine Cokenberger’s house wasn’t Jake.”
    Sam got up from his chair.  “What are you talkin’ about?”
    “Shut up, Dad.  I know you put the hit on him, but to think you’d do it with Salina —your granddaughter — in the truck is so freakin’ unreal, I can’t believe you’d be so callous.”
    “You make no sense.”
    “What if Salina had been killed by one of those bullets?”
    “I’m tellin’ ya.  I didn’t do it.”
    “Eddie just said you wrecked your truck and rented a Cadillac.  That’s a four-door sedan, right?  Is it black?”
    “No, it’s blue.  Didn’t you see it parked outside?”
    Stevie began to realize his father might be telling the truth and didn’t have a clue what he was talking about.  He tried to calm down.
    Sam came around the desk and stood next to Stevie.  “Listen, son, I’ll send out feelers about what happened, but you best get back to your daughter.  Where is she?  Is she outside in your truck?  I know you didn’t bring her in here.”
    “No, she’s at Mrs. Cokenberger’s house.”
    “Then, you get over there.  Drive-by shootings don’t happen in Erie for nothin’.  Something ain’t right.”
    “I’m leavin’, but Dad, do you know anyone who uses an automatic pistol?”
    “Fully automatic?  Nope, not in my operation.  Sounds pretty damn sophisticated.  You go on now.  Make sure Salina is safe.”
    “Thanks,” Stevie said, leaving.  As he headed out of the office and to the front door, Loretta called after him, “Ain’t you stayin’, sugar?”
    “Another time,” he said. 

Chapter Thirteen
    Early in the morning, after the previous night’s shooting, Katherine walked into the atrium and picked up the handset of the landline phone.  Scout leaped on top of the marble-top curio cabinet and tried to knock it out of her hand.  “Get down,” she scolded.
    “Waugh,” Scout cried haughtily, and leaped down.
    “Is that butter on your face?  You’re not supposed to have butter.” 
    Scout wiped her paw over her lips and licked it.  She crossed her blue eyes and curled her lip, exposing one fang. “Na-waugh,” she disagreed.
    Katherine pressed the number of the Premier Hotel in Chicago, where Jake was staying.  A friendly sounding robot answered, ‘If you know the number of your party, please press the room number and then press the pound key.’
    Katherine entered Jake’s room number — 615 — and drummed her fingers on the curio, impatiently waiting for Jake to pick up.  After seven rings, the call bounced back to the robot, which went through another annoying menu of options.  “Oh, shut up already,” Katherine said into the phone, pressing zero for the operator. 
    The front desk answered.  A woman with a British accent answered.  “Premier Hotel.  How may I assist you?”
    “Hello, my name is Katherine Cokenberger.  My husband, Jake, is a guest at your hotel.  He’s in room 615.  I’ve been trying to call him, but he doesn’t answer.  Is there