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The cat was producing a low growling sound at the back of its throat, and I quickly nudged Dooley in the ribs.“You’re blabbing, Dooley. Maybe now is a good time to zip it.” I understood where he was coming from, of course. Seeing your first hairless cat in the flesh, so to speak, tends to produce a bit of a shock. That certainly was my experience.

“First of all, nobody shaves me,” said the cat now. “Secondly, this is what I’ve always looked like. I don’t have the advantage of fur, which is why I would prefer it if you didn’t make any cracks about it. Now back to my question: why are you trespassing?”

“Like I said, we’re not trespassing,” I said. “Well, technically perhaps we are, but it’s for a good cause. You see, a, um, good friend of our humans died this morning—she was murdered, in fact—and now we’re trying to figure out who could have done that to her.”

Dooley was still eyeing the cat with undiminished fascination. “Can I…” He approached the cat. “Can I touch it?”

“It? I’m a person, not a thing,” said the cat icily.

“I know, but I’ve never seen a cat like you. What’s your name? Are you a he or a she?”

“My name is Cleo,” said the cat, giving Dooley a nasty look, “and I’m a female, can’t you tell?”

“Well, no, actually I can’t,” said Dooley. “You look like no cat I’ve ever seen. Does she look like any cat you’ve ever seen, Max?”

“Look, it doesn’t matter, Dooley,” I said, “and frankly I think you’re getting on Cleo’s nerves, so let’s just tone it down a little, shall we?”

“No, I like his candor,” said Cleo. “Most cats I meet act very snootily, figuring they need to make a big impression on me or something. So I find your honesty refreshing, cat. What are your names, by the way?”

“Dooley,” said Dooley, “and this is my best friend Max.”

“Well, nice to make your acquaintance, Dooley and Max,” said Cleo, losing some of her earlier frostiness. “So this person who got killed, what’s their name?”

“Chickie Hay,” I said. “We’re trying to find out who killed her and why.”

“Chickie is dead? Oh, that’s such a pity. My humans really liked her, and so did those next door.”

“Charlie Dieber and Jamie Borowiak,” I said, nodding.

“Wait, I thought your humans hated Chickie Hay?” said Dooley.

“Yeah, that’s the information we got,” I said.

“Not true. There was bad blood between them, sure, but that was all business related. As a person they liked her and admired her for the career she built. I liked her, too. Nice songs. Though to be honest I’m more of a jazz cat myself.”

“Then you’ll like our human’s dad,” said Dooley. “He’s a musician and he plays jazz.”

“What kind of jazz?” asked Cleo, her interest piqued.

“Um…” I stared at Dooley and Dooley stared at me. “No idea, actually,” I said.

“Big band, bebop, contemporary, free jazz, ragtime, Latin jazz?”

“Is that all… music?” asked Dooley.

“Types of jazz music, yeah.”

“How come you know so much about this stuff?” I asked.

“That’s what you get when you live with a true music fan,” said Cleo with a deferential little smile.

“Laron likes jazz?” I asked.

“Loves jazz. He plays a little jazz himself. So what kind of music are you guys into?”

But unfortunately—or fortunately—our musical preference would remain a secret to Cleo, for the door to the room had suddenly opened and two men walked in. One was big and burly and the other thin and scrawny and as they stood illuminated against the backdrop of the hallway lights, I thought for a moment I’d seen them both before.

“Hey, I think I’ve seen these guys before,” Dooley said, confirming my suspicions.

Then again, in our line of work you meet so many people it’s hard to keep track.

“More intruders,” said Cleo with a sad shake of the head.

“Maybe they’re visitors, like us,” said Dooley as he watched the men close the door and enter the room. They were both carrying big empty gym bags.

“Doubtful,” said Cleo. “They look like a bunch of crooks to me, and trust me, I know the difference. If humans are as rich as mine, a lot of people want to share in that wealth, usually without asking permission first.”

“I’ll look in here,” said the skinny one. “You try the bedroom. And focus on high-value items only, Johnny. I’ll bet these rich bozos got plenty of gold and jewels lying around.”

“Isn’t that rappers, though, Jer?” asked the one named Johnny. “Rappers like gold.”

“Rappers, pop stars, who cares? They all love jewels and so do we.”

“Gotcha, Jer,” said Johnny, and started rifling through one of the cabinets.

“Looks like you’re right, Cleo,” I said. “I think these men are here to steal from your human.”

“Of course I’m right.”

“So what do we do now? We probably shouldn’t let this happen, right?”