D.b. Hayes, Detective. Dani Sinclair

were you going to get him home on your bike?” If those cats had seemed frantic in a car, I could just imagine their reaction to a bicycle.

      “I attached a basket to my handlebars and brought the cat carrier with me,” he explained.

      Reaching down, he picked up a small carrier that had been on the floor at his feet, out of my line of sight. Based on its size, Sam One was the missing cat. Sam Two would have needed a shoehorn.

      I secured the bike in the back of the van and drove the short distance to my apartment. I’d be glad to have those animals gone before the super realized they were inside the building.

      “What happened to your hand?” Mickey asked.

      “Mr. Sam. He doesn’t like cars.”

      “Most cats don’t,” the kid said philosophically. “I hope you put something on that. Cat scratches can be dangerous.”

      “Dangerous how?” I asked nervously.

      “You know, germs and stuff.”

      “Right.” Germs and stuff. No good deed goes unpunished, as Trudy is fond of saying. In this case, I devoutly hoped she was wrong. If I got an infection because of that stupid cat, I was not going to be happy.

      Mickey tensed a little as we started walking into my building a few minutes later. I hated to go against the smart conditioning his parents had put on him, but I was not going to go up there and try to cage that little monster by myself. He’d had all the skin he was going to get off my body.

      I unlocked the deadbolt and opened the door carefully. No blur of gray came running out to greet us.

      “Where is he?” Mickey demanded.

      “I’m not sure. One of them is in my bedroom. The other one was hiding behind the couch the last time I saw him.”

      The kid whipped out a bag of treats. I wouldn’t have thought he could have stuffed something that size into the pocket of those shorts.

      “Here, Sam. Here, Sammy.”

      He got down on the floor and rattled the bag. Nothing happened.

      “He always comes out for treats,” Mickey said plaintively.

      “He’s probably nervous. This is a strange place for him.”

      I walked over and tugged the couch out from the wall. A gray streak whipped past me to cower behind the potted palm frond near the window.

      “It’s okay, Sammy, it’s me.” Mickey walked over toward the plant, and the cat scooted around the chair and took off toward the kitchen.

      “That’s not Mr. Sam,” Mickey said.

      “How can you tell?”

      He gave me another of those disturbingly adult looks that said plainly what he thought of my inability to distinguish the difference between the picture he had given me and the cat now hiding somewhere in my kitchen.

      “Okay,” I said, “then it must be the one in the bedroom.”

      Mickey had to crawl under the bed with a flashlight to see Sam Two. He crawled back out in disgust.

      “That’s not Mr. Sam either.”

      My stomach churned. “Are you sure?”

      “Of course I am.”

      Of course he was. I remembered the other gray cat I’d seen as I was leaving the park and my heart plunged to meet my roiling stomach. I was going to have to go back to the park.

      “We’ve gotta find him. My uncle’s coming for dinner this week. We hav’ta find him before then.”

      Of course we did. The kid looked ready to cry. I had no idea what to do if he started crying. He looked so upset, I heard myself telling him about the other cat I’d seen and agreeing to help him try and find it.

      It was those darn eyes of his, I told myself half an hour later as we scoured the park for gray cats. I’m a sucker for soft eyes like those. But the word had gone out. Avoid the crazy lady at all costs. We didn’t even see a cat, let alone a gray one.

      “I hav’ta go home,” Mickey told me, looking pathetically discouraged. “My mom’s picking me up to go shopping.”

      He made it sound like a surgical ordeal.

      “All right. I’ll run you home and come back. I can keep looking for a little while longer.”

      Hope replaced his despair.

      “Thanks! You can keep the carrier. I’ll take my bike and come to the store as soon as I get back.”

      Wondering when my brain had turned to fuzz, I agreed and got his bike from the back of the van. “Where do you live, Mickey?”

      “On Broadhurst.”

      Two streets away.

      “Maybe I should concentrate on some of the side streets between here and there. He’s probably hiding in someone’s bushes.”

      “Okay. Just find him.”

      “I’ll do my best.”

      Only, after walking four blocks in both directions, I decided to call it quits. The cat could be anywhere. He was probably up some tree laughing at me as I trudged past making kissy noises at the bushes. The day was heating up in an effort to top yesterday, and I was wilting faster than cut flowers left out of water.

      As I crossed to my car, I spotted a little gray cat trotting across the parking lot. This one had four white paws. Looking at the picture Mickey had given me, I realized the paws didn’t show. I’d forgotten to ask the kid if the cat was all gray. How could I have forgotten something so basic?

      The little guy came willingly when I called him Mr. Sam. He was much smaller than the other two cats and his hair wasn’t as long, but he was mostly gray and that was good enough for me. He even went into the carrier without a fuss. Elated, I headed back to the shop with my prize.

      Trudy and Aunt Lacy had to hear the entire tale once I got back. They fussed over the small cat like a pair of broody hens. Mr. Sam seemed to enjoy all the attention—a refreshing change from the first two.

      Trudy and my aunt sent me down the street to pick up more cat food and litter, even though I explained we wouldn’t have him more than a few hours, but when I got back, they were looking at me with the same sort of expression I’d come to expect from Mickey.

      “Didn’t you say this cat was called Mr. Sam?” Aunt Lacy asked.

      “Wrong sex,” Trudy said.

      “What?”

      “She’s a she, and if she’s over a year old, it can’t be by much.”

      I groaned. “Are you sure?”

      “Positive,” my aunt told me. “You’ll need to make signs.”

      “Signs?”

      “Well, you can’t turn the poor little thing loose on the street,” she objected.

      “But that’s where I found her.”

      “Use your camera to take her picture and make some Found signs so we can find her owner,” Aunt Lacy insisted.

      There was no arguing with that tone of voice. I went and got my digital camera. I was printing the Found Cat signs when I heard a commotion out front.

      “I said you can’t go back there! Sir! You can’t go back there!”

      I didn’t even have time to get up before a large shape filled the office doorway. Elaine Russo’s lover stood framed there. His eyes were a brilliant blue, I discovered, and they could shoot invisible flames. Those flames ignited a heat that started low in my belly and spread outward at an alarming rate.

      “What did you do with