Cat in Wolf's Clothing (9781101578889) by Lydia Adamson

as it was on the night his sister was murdered. Nothing has been removed. Nothing has been changed.”
    â€œIs that true, Mr. Bonaventura?” I asked.
    He reached in his pocket and pulled out a color photo of his sister. He held it up for me to see. “She still lives there. In her apartment. One-Hundred and Eleventh Street and Broadway. She still lives there and I still visit her.”
    I couldn’t look at the photo. I turned away. But this strange man had provided us with an invaluable time capsule. It was a gift that we had no right to expect; a chance to go back, far back, to one of the first murders . . . to attempt to re-create the murder in its pristine state.
    â€œI’ll call you, Tony. We’ll set it up with Mr. Bonaventura, if he doesn’t mind taking us there.”
    â€œHe wants very much to take us there,” Tony said.
    Tony then helped the big man up, and they walked to the door. I opened it for them.
    â€œCan you wait outside in the hall for a minute?” Tony asked Bonaventura. He closed the door partway after the man exited.
    â€œWe have to think about what happened the other day, Swede,” he whispered to me.
    Before I could respond, he kissed me quickly on the lips. He tasted of whiskey.
    â€œI think we made a mistake, Tony,” I replied.
    He tried to kiss me again, but I turned my face away. He whispered into my ear, “‘If this be error and upon me proved . . . I never writ nor no man ever loved.’”
    â€œI thought you loathed Shakespeare, Tony.”
    â€œThat was in another life. I am brand-new. Everything is new again.”
    He walked out the door. I shut it. Turning, I saw that Bushy was sitting in the hallway, regarding me quizzically. I realized that I hadn’t even told Tony about the leaf valentines I had found pressed between plates in Jack Tyre’s apartment. My negligence irritated me.
    â€œWhat are you staring at?” I yelled at Bushy. I think he grinned.

Chapter 10
    When I awoke the next morning, Pancho was lying on the end of my bed. His eyes were open, and he seemed to be staring at Bushy, who was stretched out, as usual, on the pillow next to me.
    This was very strange. Pancho never slept on my bed . . . if he ever slept at all. Was he sick? Had he finally escaped from his imaginary pursuers? Was he about to attack Bushy? Or me?
    I lay in bed and stared at my dear crazy cat. The other one, sober Bushy, was still snoozing against the pillow. As I looked at Pancho, I realized that he was my feline analogue for Tony Basillio. Pancho was Tony. Tony was Pancho. That was why it had happened. Like sometimes my heart overflowed for Pancho’s plight—so it had overflowed for Tony Basillio in the hotel room. It was love, yes, but not the normal kind. I had slept with him, I realized, to protect him. Against what? Who knows? As many things as were chasing Pancho—so they were chasing Tony.
    I moved my toes just a bit, and Pancho flew away, leaving only the slight indentation of his body on the quilt.
    An hour later, having forgotten all about my strange analogy between Pancho and Tony, I entered my new cubicle at Retro. It was pathetic. A tiny Plexiglas square set down by the supply room.
    It was, I realized, designed as punishment. Or rather, Judy Mizener had put me in it to show the other people in Retro that I could no longer be taken seriously, although I was still part of the team.
    When I entered the computer room, Bert Turk was polite and distant; no more marriage proposals. He handed me the updated blue book. I went over the files on Jill Bonaventura’s brother—nothing new. And then I carefully studied all the information and profiles on Jack Tyre. There was no mention of leaves of any kind. With Bert Turk’s help, I then did a computer search for any mention of leaf bouquets in any one of the other murders. There was no mention at all—not a single reference.