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third woman was attacked in the dark stairway of her condo, again when the lightbulb had been unscrewed. Why had she gone in there when there was no light?
    And the strangest thing was, none of the women had been raped. These men forced themselves into their homes, broke the furniture, stole money and jewelry, and fled. Sometimes two men, sometimes three, their faces covered with stockings in a trite but effective disguise. It was the very absence of further brutality that most puzzled the police, and puzzled the cats, as well. Could the perpetrators, if they got caught, not want to stand trial for the more serious offense of rape? That seemed to the cats the only possible explanation—brutal small-time thugs, wanting to have their fun but still save their own necks.
    Racing over the roofs following the silent patrol cars, Kit heard a scream somewhere ahead—but not a human scream. It was an animal: a dog, in terrible pain. A little dog, screaming and screaming, its cries sickening her as she leaped from roof to roof, so upsetting her, she nearly fell offthe edge, and scrambled to regain her footing on the damp, slanting shingles.
    The cop cars slowed, pulled to the curb. The screams came from directly below her now, from a house she knew well. She pictured the little Skye terrier who lived there, tiny and frail beneath its long silky brown fur. If that little dog was hurt, this, to Kit, was far more upsetting than an attack on a human person. To hear a little animal hurting and helpless tore at her, left her hissing and shivering.

7

    B ECKY LAKE’S SHINGLED studio home was shaded by pepper trees, its interior one large room with an alcove for the kitchen, another for the bath and closet. Its steep roof rose like a pyramid, flattened at the very peak into a four-by-four-foot skylight, the thick, clear glass usually dusted with leaves from the pepper trees and decorated with little cat paw prints. Kit had spent many hours lying across the glass looking down into the paneled room with its high rafters and wide stone fireplace, a retreat that might have been built at the edge of a mountain stream or in the Swiss Alps, but that fit right into this casual and wooded village. Peering down through the skylight, she could see Becky’s Christmas tree, all hung with little carved wooden toys. On the hearth stood a ceramic pot of holly branches gleaming with clusters of red berries. She didn’t see Becky, but she could see the little terrier. Rowdy lay on his side, bitingfrantically at his shoulder, his cries so loud they made her ears ring.
    Had the neighbors heard him, was that what had generated the 911 call? Well, help was here now, but why didn’t they hurry? She looked down at the three black-and-whites on the street below and the EMT van in the drive, watched Officer Brennan and Detective Kathleen Ray pile out of a squad car and double-time it up the steps. Kathleen was taller than Brennan and slimmer, her dark hair knotted sleekly beneath her uniform cap. Brennan pounded on the door and then threw it open. Weapons drawn, they eased inside. Behind them, two more uniforms moved up the walk, and Max Harper’s pickup pulled to the curb.
    The chief sent two additional officers circling around to the back, and then he, too, stepped inside, his hand on his holstered weapon. Where was Becky Lake? How badly was she hurt? Why didn’t someone help the little dog, why didn’t they help Rowdy?
    Becky Lake was only twenty-something, and she and Rob were newly married: Rob was the manager of the little local grocery store. Becky, a slim, pretty girl, always looked so fresh and clean, always smelled of soap and water as if she’d just stepped from a cool shower. Even as Kit watched, Becky appeared in the open door supported by Detective Ray, her ash-blond hair a tangle, her pale blue blouse torn, revealing a white silk bra and various bruises already turning purple or red. Kathleen supported the girl, trying to calm her, but Becky