trying to sound as intelligent as I knew how. Grass blades have never been one of my favorite subjects, though I do enjoy them after a heavy meal.
“From the way the grass was flattened, it’s clear she was carried all the way from the tree to the pond and then dumped in.”
She was moving at a good pace and I had to make an effort to keep up. One of the disadvantages of being big is that it takes more energy to move from point A to point B. Something to do with an apple and a guy called Newton. “Dumped in?” I repeated, panting a little.
“Just like Lucy Knicx,” she said. “Too bad the witness didn’t have the nerve to stay the killer’s hand.”
“Your crew wasn’t in place, then?” I said, as innocently as possible.
She gave me a bemused frown. “Crew? What crew?”
“Those heavies I saw before,” I said. When she looked at me as if I was speaking dog, I elaborated. “Three ugly-looking and very unfriendly Peterbalds?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said finally. “I canvased the scene all by myself, though Frank dropped by later on to see if there was anything he could do.”
Now it was my turn to frown. “But I thought…”
“The FSA is a very small organization, Tom. And I can assure you no Peterbalds have ever been signed to join. Which is not to say I have anything against Peterbalds,” she quickly added, probably remembering some non-discrimination clause in the FSA statutes. Her next words confirmed this. “All cats are created equal after all.”
I hesitated.
“Don’t you agree?” she said, a little too vehemently for my taste. It was clearly a subject on which she held strong views.
“Oh, of course,” I said, dispelling her fear that I was some sort of feline racist. “It’s just that I did see three Peterbalds who were on their way to the elm tree last night. So I naturally assumed…”
“Yes, I see,” she said, mulling over these words. “I wonder what they were doing there.”
“You didn’t see them?”
“No, though I did have the distinct impression I was being watched at some point.” She shrugged. “Probably just tourists.”
“Yeah,” I said, not convinced. Hadn’t Brutus mentioned he’d seen Dana hobnobbing with the ugly trio? For a brief moment I toyed with the idea of confronting her with the truth, but then I dropped it. If there’s one thing any secret agent worth his or her salt knows how to do with practiced ease, it’s lying. There was no way I would get her to tell me the truth if she didn’t want to. I had to try another tack. “Brutus said he thought they were from Southridge,” I said.
“Oh?”
“Yeah, he said Southridgeans are swarming all over Brookridge trying to steal our natural resources.”
“Is that so?” she said, uninterested.
“Especially our queens,” I said, emphasizing the last word.
Dana simply ignored me. I gave it one last try.
“He said Southridgeans are probably behind these murders as well.”
Dana looked up sharply. “Brutus is a silly ass and you can tell him so when you see him next.”
“Oh-kay,” I said, taken aback by this sudden snappishness.
“And what’s all this talk about Brutus anyway?” she continued. “I thought you two didn’t get along?”
“Well, it’s like this…” I began, but she interrupted me.
“You’d better stay away from that cat,” she said, fixing me with a fierce stare. “He’s not good company for an FSA agent.”
In my opinion Brutus wasn’t good company for any cat, but I remained quiet, wondering what had brought on this sudden outburst.
“He’s a meddling fool and the worst gossipmonger in all of Brookridge. That’s why I often use him to spread a rumor. Within 24 hours every single cat roaming the Brookridge streets is briefed when Brutus gets a whiff of the story.”
I knew all that, of course, but what I didn’t know was why the mere mention of Southridgean involvement in Dana’s murder investigation was
“From the way the grass was flattened, it’s clear she was carried all the way from the tree to the pond and then dumped in.”
She was moving at a good pace and I had to make an effort to keep up. One of the disadvantages of being big is that it takes more energy to move from point A to point B. Something to do with an apple and a guy called Newton. “Dumped in?” I repeated, panting a little.
“Just like Lucy Knicx,” she said. “Too bad the witness didn’t have the nerve to stay the killer’s hand.”
“Your crew wasn’t in place, then?” I said, as innocently as possible.
She gave me a bemused frown. “Crew? What crew?”
“Those heavies I saw before,” I said. When she looked at me as if I was speaking dog, I elaborated. “Three ugly-looking and very unfriendly Peterbalds?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said finally. “I canvased the scene all by myself, though Frank dropped by later on to see if there was anything he could do.”
Now it was my turn to frown. “But I thought…”
“The FSA is a very small organization, Tom. And I can assure you no Peterbalds have ever been signed to join. Which is not to say I have anything against Peterbalds,” she quickly added, probably remembering some non-discrimination clause in the FSA statutes. Her next words confirmed this. “All cats are created equal after all.”
I hesitated.
“Don’t you agree?” she said, a little too vehemently for my taste. It was clearly a subject on which she held strong views.
“Oh, of course,” I said, dispelling her fear that I was some sort of feline racist. “It’s just that I did see three Peterbalds who were on their way to the elm tree last night. So I naturally assumed…”
“Yes, I see,” she said, mulling over these words. “I wonder what they were doing there.”
“You didn’t see them?”
“No, though I did have the distinct impression I was being watched at some point.” She shrugged. “Probably just tourists.”
“Yeah,” I said, not convinced. Hadn’t Brutus mentioned he’d seen Dana hobnobbing with the ugly trio? For a brief moment I toyed with the idea of confronting her with the truth, but then I dropped it. If there’s one thing any secret agent worth his or her salt knows how to do with practiced ease, it’s lying. There was no way I would get her to tell me the truth if she didn’t want to. I had to try another tack. “Brutus said he thought they were from Southridge,” I said.
“Oh?”
“Yeah, he said Southridgeans are swarming all over Brookridge trying to steal our natural resources.”
“Is that so?” she said, uninterested.
“Especially our queens,” I said, emphasizing the last word.
Dana simply ignored me. I gave it one last try.
“He said Southridgeans are probably behind these murders as well.”
Dana looked up sharply. “Brutus is a silly ass and you can tell him so when you see him next.”
“Oh-kay,” I said, taken aback by this sudden snappishness.
“And what’s all this talk about Brutus anyway?” she continued. “I thought you two didn’t get along?”
“Well, it’s like this…” I began, but she interrupted me.
“You’d better stay away from that cat,” she said, fixing me with a fierce stare. “He’s not good company for an FSA agent.”
In my opinion Brutus wasn’t good company for any cat, but I remained quiet, wondering what had brought on this sudden outburst.
“He’s a meddling fool and the worst gossipmonger in all of Brookridge. That’s why I often use him to spread a rumor. Within 24 hours every single cat roaming the Brookridge streets is briefed when Brutus gets a whiff of the story.”
I knew all that, of course, but what I didn’t know was why the mere mention of Southridgean involvement in Dana’s murder investigation was
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