He ushered me through the vestibule, into his cluttered living room. I counted six cats. Three were lounging on chairs, two stretched out under the glass-top coffee table and a kitten peeked out of a toque on the floor.
“They’re all rescues,” he explained. “I’d have more but City Bylaw restricts me to six.”
“You must love cats.”
“Better than most people. For one thing, cats don’t get bent out of shape when I make a joke. I’m betting you’re here because I told Sandy Gowda that I was looking for a little pussy when he caught me on his property.”
He pointed to the cat in the hat.
“That one got loose. There’s always one in the bunch that wants to be an outdoor kitty, but I don’t allow it.”
He paused for effect.
“It’s irresponsible.”
He waved at the couch, which was the only cat-free seat in the room.
“Want a beer? Something stronger?”
“Neither. Thank you.”
“I’ll get beer.”
I removed my coat and draped it over the end of the couch and put my bag on the floor beside it. Crabbe returned, clutching two bottles. I shook my head at his renewed offer and sat at the edge of the couch, within easy reach of my things. Crabbe lounged sideways, one leg on the floor, the other crooked and leaning against the back cushions. If I cared to, I could look up his shorts in this position.
Only years of training stopped me from shuddering. Instead I asked about his cats.
“Are they all tagged and chipped?”
“They don’t have to be. They’re indoor animals. Cats would be a lot better off if the law had made letting your pets loose illegal instead of going the electronic chip route. A chip isn’t going to stop your cat getting or spreading rabies or feline distemper or heartworm. It won’t stop your cat from getting run over or poisoned either.” He shook his head. “But I might have to tag junior. She’s a tricky kitty.”
I asked him whether he had seen anyone or anything suspicious on his evening walks. He went into exhaustive detail that amounted to him seeing nothing useful. When I asked him about strays in the neighbourhood, he was more helpful.
“I pick ’em up when I can. If I can’t keep ’em or find ’em a home there are always farmers looking for more vermin hunters. Better that than waiting for execution in a small cage.”
I took issue with his portrayal of Animal Control’s operation. They worked with the Humane Society to return or place domestic animals as much as possible. But I kept my thoughts to myself and let him rant until he reached for the second beer. Then I turned the conversation.
“I understand you knew Blake Collins.”
He paused, bottle tilted.
“We hung around together when we were younger. Why?”
“It’s been suggested that he wasn’t fond of cats and might have abused his wife’s cat. It’s not a strong lead, but if he came back…”
Crabbe gave a snort of laughter.
“He got along fine with my cats. He was just yanking her chain.”
He leaned back and gulped down almost half the bottle as if to make up for the brief pause in his drinking.
“Blake was a man’s man. He was hetero when it came to sex, but he preferred the company of his buddies. Back then I was one of them. Never could understand why he married. Now me, I like to stay available.”
Crabbe started to spread his legs so his boxers would gape more. It was like a train wreck—hard not to look. Instead I focussed on his eyes. For an apparently hard drinker, his eyes were remarkably clear.
“What about Koehne?” I asked.
“Mike ‘call me Ishmael’ Koehne? Bit of a loser, but Blake let him hang out with us. We stay in touch, go out for a beer or six. You don’t think he could be an animal killer, do you? He’s so squeamish he faints at the sight of blood. Blake showed me a couple of times.”
Blake was a real piece of work.
He cupped his crotch and grinned.
“I bet I could make you faint.”
And Crabbe was a real idiot.
“I should go. I have other interviews to conduct tonight.”
I handed him my business card before standing and putting on my coat.
“If you think of anything else…”
He squinted at the card then turned it over and over.
“Garrett. Any relation to Joe Garrett?”
Since I was a kid, I had taken it on faith that everyone in the City knew my father. Today was proving I was right.
“He’s my father. How did you know him, Mr. Crabbe?”
“Call me Paulo.”
He levered himself off the couch.
“You got to stay for a drink now. I was outta town when he died. Would have been at the service if I’d been around.”
Crabbe weaved out of the room, avoiding cats, cat toys and other things that landed on the floor and stayed there. He returned through the obstacle course with two very full shot glasses. Miraculously, very little of the amber liquid left the glasses. He passed me the fullest one.
“We’ll toast you father.”
I could almost feel my father rolling over in his grave. “Never accept a drink that’s already been poured.” He’d drilled that into me since I was ten. Of course, he meant any drink, not just alcoholic. Even so, I took the proffered glass and raised it for a toast.
“Here’s to Joe Garrett,” said Crabbe. He tossed down his shot. “May he rot in hell for his sins.”
The glass was at my lips, which was as far I intended it to go. With snake-like speed, Crabbe leaned in and tipped the contents into my mouth. I tried to spit, but he covered my mouth and soon I could feel the telltale burn at the back of my throat. Then he pushed me onto the couch, landing on top of me. Air whooshed out of me, spraying the liquor I managed not to swallow in Crabbe’s face.
As soon as I got my breath back, I pushed him off of me, onto the floor.
“Crap! What the fuck was that about?”
He just laughed and pushed himself up to sit on the floor between the couch and the coffee table. A black and white cat came out from under the table to check on him. Laughter morphed to cooing noises as he fussed over the animal.
Whatever he’d spiked my drink with was going to work fast. I could feel the lethargy spreading. Soon I was going to either fall forward on to the floor or back into the deep cushions of the couch. “That’s right. Go to sleep, Garrett Junior. I couldn’t touch Garrett Senior for what he did to Blake, but I sure can touch you.”
“What is your problem? Collins shot my father. My father winged him, but he was well enough to bolt.”
“So his whore partner hunted him down. Garrett either sent her or covered up for her. Then he retired with a full pension and honours heaped on him.”
He put the cat down and started to get up. I smashed the heel of my fist into the top of the coffee table. Both of us were surprised when the glass shattered, but not as much as the cats that went from zero to speed blur before the first shard hit the floor.
Crabbe started to get up. I pointed a bloody finger at him and motioned him to stop.
“Sit! Stay!”
I was always better with dogs than cats.
“Bitch!”
I grabbed my bag and stood, only a little wobbly. He didn’t move until I started backing towards the door. Then he was up—and his boxers were down. He stumbled. I reached into my bag and grabbed what I thought was my Maglite. When he righted himself, I slammed the peach syrup into his face.
That’s when the door burst open.