I’d once shared a cordial but hands-off relationship with my ex-wife’s cat that suited us both, so I knew the basics.
Noye got popped a few weeks later. The cat got sick – probably from eating only beer hot dogs. Noye took it to the vet and it turned out to have a microchip. The vet called the owner when it was apparent that Noye wasn’t him, and Noye was arrested in the waiting room while reading an article about celebrity’s cats.
They got him for the burglary. I knew he wouldn’t talk, and he didn’t. He also knew better than to call me. I went to Dru Delacroix’s office – the attorney we use when necessary. Noye called me there. He told them he found the cat wandering and took her in and figured he’d be off the hook. That didn’t work. Apparently they had his latent prints from the restaurant.
“You wore gloves.”
“I took them off to pet Sally.”
“I didn’t want the rubber to pull on her fur and make her uncomfortable.”
“And you didn’t put them back on before you went into the desk?”
Noye was crestfallen. At least it sounded like he was.
“I guess not.”
“The last time I peed the bubbles in the toilet took the shape of Italy, with the boot and everything.”
“That must have been uplifting.”
“Can you do me a favor?” he said.
“There’s a cat at my place.”
“I thought they took Sally.”
“It’s another cat.”
“You got another?”
“To keep Sally company. Can you feed it and change the litter?”
“How do I get in?”
“My tenant has a key,” he said. “In case I lock myself out.”
Which I bet he did more often than not.Noye had made enough over the years to buy a duplex just off the main drag and close to the bus line. I knocked on the other door. A small girl in a frilly dress answered. She held the door wide open and stared at me.
“Your mom home?”
She nodded, still staring.
“Can you get her?”
She walked down the hall, turning back to stare at me. A woman came to the door, followed by the girl.