Cat in a hot pink Pursuit

most generous to me with tidbits at mealtime. She could have innocently walked through a bit of it herself.”
    We hear a crack of something opening or shutting far down the corridor of darkness.
    "Quick!” Miss Midnight Louise is all tracker now. “I do not want to lose Mr. Rafi.”
    We take off and there is a double echo of pad thumping wood behind us that only I hear, because I am listening for it.
    We hit a hidden flight of stairs and go streaking down it too fast to stop. More dark hallway. Our whiskers ease us through, warning us before we slam our pusses into solid wall.
    A far sliver of light tells us where Mr. Rafi Nadir has gone.
    We race to that point, pause, and then Louise sticks her nose into the light. (She is very good at sticking her nose where it does not belong.) It widens to whisker width. The light comes from a lit lamp. In its intense circle, we spot Mr. Rafi bending over a desk and chair. I notice some fresh four-tracks on his upper arms, but he is too busy to pay much attention to a few wounds.
    I realize where we are: on the wrong side of the crime scene tape, and so is he.
    This does not seem to bother him as he moves around the room, examining this and that.
    “This is Miss Marjory Klein’s office,” Louise hisses in my ear.
    I flatten my offended appendage. Her hisses are sharper than a biker’s switchblade.
    We push against the wall as Mr. Rafi comes back into the passage, shuts the door disguised as a wall on the other side, and moves farther along it.
    Last I had heard of the pursuing Persian girls was some muffled thumps on the surprise staircase and some choice curses in Farsi.
    Amazing how one reverts to one’s roots in times of stress, even natural blondes like the Divine Yvette.
    Yet I dare not rush to her assistance and give away that we are not alone.
    Rafi is sure giving the place the once-over. We follow him left and follow him right, and then follow him right into another office.
    This is Ms. Beth Marble’s office, and once again we are all on the wrong side of the crime scene tape.
    Miss Louise is the first nose through the hidden door, of course, and she reports to me in short little pants.
    “He is examining her drawers.”
    In other situations, this would not be rated family fare, but since Miss Beth Marble’s mortal remains are long gone, I am sure that everything is above board.
    Besides, it is clear to me that Mr. Rafi is tracing the passage’s access to the crime scenes. Certainly it is clear how a body might be transported from Mr. Dexter Manship’s office to this one without being observed.
    In fact, I turn us around and, using my instinctive feline radar, lead Louise to a site that Mr. Rafi has not discovered yet.
    There I instruct her to jump up at a certain spot until the apparent wall turns into a door.
    I sit back on my haunches and enjoy the exercise, since it is not mine. Eventually she hits the sweet spot that opens the concealed entrance.
    No light this time, as no one bearing a flashlight is in our party, but I bound inside, whisker my way to the desk, and leap up to punch the lamp’s switch.
    Light blinds me for a few seconds, but, sure enough, I am inside Mr. Dexter Manship’s office. No doubt cameras are recording my presence. I recall too late the strange snipping noise that preceded Mr. Rafi into the offices he visited. He had cut the camera cords, which were no doubt placed too high for me to reach anyway.
    Ah, well. I am very telegenic and will be dismissed as harmless vermin, as usual.
    Miss Louise has skittered in at fioor level and is sniffing deeply under the desk.
    “Mr. Manship is indeed another bubblegum shoe suspect,” she confirms my previous conclusion with satisfaction. “A pity everybody tiptoed through the exercise mats during the shaving cream graffiti episode. We need the film of that time to check who got close enough to infect their shoes.”
    “Yes, yes. Proof is fine, but right now I need suspects. Ours is not to make the case, ours is to point out the possibilities.”
    “How? We are hardly legitimate consultants.”
    “About your own suspected origins you may speak for yourself, Louise. I know my sire and dam.”
    “Braggart!”
    I inhale deeply the atrocious tutti-frutti scent deposited under Mr. Dexter Manship’s desk. It is particularly strong and there are even a few stringy remnants of the source. Let us hope his shoes are so endowed tomorrow, during the Teen Queen finals.
    I have an urge to unmask a