Cat in a White Tie and Tails

by Carole Nelson Douglas

  “It’s human, Mom. I wished the same. I was even in a position to end his existence.”

  “Matt!”

  “It’s not what we think. It’s what we do.”

  “Cliff said he’d found you,” Mira answered, confused. “Snickered about it. That made me so angry.”

  “No. I tracked him. I found him. He was a petty criminal around Vegas. And when he died, it was a lot worse than anything I could have contemplated doing.”

  She put her hands to her ears. “I don’t want to hear anything more about that miserable creature. I never wanted to see him again. And when he came here—”

  “He came here?”

  Temple was starting to think beyond the blame game, but she didn’t dare interject anything into the mother–son dialogue.

  “Months ago.” Mira pushed her hands into her freshly done hair, ruining it. “He wanted to know where I’d stored things from the two-flat when I’d sold it and moved out. There was one of those fireproof file boxes. I’d looked through, and it was mostly tax forms. He did all that, probably lied, probably got tax refunds I didn’t know about. I always let him have the money because he’d leave for a while then, and leave us alone.”

  Temple closed her eyes and wished she could close her ears. It ached to hear so much ingrained misery. She could only imagine how Matt felt to revisit his mother’s awful marriage through adult eyes. No wonder he’d gone into the priesthood straight from high school. He would probably have murdered Effinger otherwise.

  “Mom, what about the file safe?”

  “The tax returns? I was afraid the IRS … I kept it. It’s stored in the basement.”

  “So Effinger took it a few months ago?”

  “No. He just wanted to make sure I had it. He said not to touch it.” She winced bitterly. “I didn’t want to. He said to keep it … warm … for him,” she spat out. “I had a big knife in the kitchen block.”

  Temple’s eyes went to the countertop, as did Matt. Sure enough, a knife block.

  “I thought…,” Mira said. “But I didn’t want him to have the satisfaction of knowing he’d driven me to do wrong. Now do you see, Matt, why I can’t marry anyone? I thought I could, but I have too much to hide, too much to hate about myself.”

  During the extended pause, Temple saw Matt taking a long look at his mother. “Yeah. You’re right. You can’t love anyone if you hate yourself. You can’t forgive anyone if you don’t forgive yourself.”

  Tough love.

  “Anyone?” Her voice trembled.

  “Anyone.” He was adamant.

  Mira swallowed, digesting the back draft of her emotional meltdown, finally listening. “That can’t come overnight.”

  “No. But it can start right here, right now. It has to, Mom. We can’t go on otherwise.”

  She sighed, her shoulders straightening. “If someone wants what’s in that file safe, I can give it up.”

  “First,” Matt said, “we’ll look at what’s in it. Temple and I.”

  Mira’s look of panicked appeal at Temple made it hard to insist she really had to see the contents. But it was her cat, her case. She did.

  “Possibly fraudulent tax returns might seem scary,” Temple said. “So is what those thugs called to say about my cat. If someone wants what Cliff Effinger had, considering he was probably killed by the mob, we’ll all be a lot better off knowing where and what it is.”

  Chapter 22

  We Call the Wind Mariah

  Rafi Nadir’s palms were sweating.

  He’d been street-tested in East L.A. and Watts. He could handle facing down a gun barrel. He’d been among a detail that had subdued some King Kong on angel dust without going all Rodney King on the guy. He’d patted down a transsexual hooker who was armed, drunk, disorderly, and threatening to cut off all working parts in the vicinity, his, hers, and theirs.

  But he’d never had to call Carmen Molina and ask if she’d allow him to take her and their daughter out to eat. Maybe Kinsella was right. He should start solo with Molina and work into “them.” He couldn’t decide which tactic would make his ex-significant other more suspicious.

  He finally touched the Contact bar on his cell phone, bracing his feet on the hassock in his apartment and preparing to sound confident and relaxed.

  “Yes?”

  Jeez, she sounded irritated already, and he was sure his home number wasn’t on her cell phone.

  “It’s Rafi.” At least he had a distinctive name. There’d be no confusion. Not that she’d had many men but cops calling her at home, or calling on her, just that Columbo clone, Detective Alch.

  “I can see that,” she said.

  So she did have his number. In the right way. Before he could segue into a casual approach, she continued.

  “I’m glad you called.”

  What?

  “Do you know what your encouraging Mariah’s American Idol ambitions has done now?”

  “I know kids need encouragement and ambitions, but I didn’t okay her running off to chase them.”

  “Oh, Mariah hasn’t run off.”

  Good. Mariah “running away” from home to enter another reality-TV teen talent show had led to exposing Matt Devine and Temple Barr to a deranged killer.

  “Or rather,” Molina went on, “she’s run off only at the mouth. She used her friend’s karaoke machine to record a song she wrote and mount it on YouTube.”

  “YouTube? Really? What’s the song called?”

  Pause. “Bleu Doll-ya.”

  “Isn’t that the name of the place you used to sing sometimes?”

  “I still could.”

  “The YouTube site isn’t coming up on my iPhone. Just the local nightclub.”

  “Mariah’s version is spelled B-l-e-u D-o-l-l-y-a.”

  “Bleu as in the cheese?”

  “As in the French.”

  “I knew that, Carmen. It’s French cheese. Yeah. Here it is.”

  “Cheese as in cheesy,” Molina grumbled.

  “Let’s see. Production values are nil … tween friend’s bedroom. Standard laptop camera and mic, but the song is kinda catchy.”

  “Like the measles.”

  “We need to discuss this new wrinkle in person. Maybe we can grab a bite.” He got inspired. “At the Blue Dahlia, say.”

  “That’s more than ‘grabbing a bite.’”

  “So who says you don’t deserve a quiet dinner out? And I hear the band is good. Where’s Mariah now?”

  “Grounded.”

  “You have a handy watchdog for her, right? Being you’re on call.”

  “A couple live in the neighborhood. I could check. I’m not sure I’m—”

  “Ready to go out on short notice? You never wore much makeup. Didn’t need it.”

  “Not ready to see you in a social setting.”

  “Oh, come on. I helped out on that last case, didn’t I? And we have a big something in common to discuss.”

  “Apparently you’re primed to do the town since you got that Oasis assistant security chief job.”

  The comment was out of left field and a bit catty for Molina, but Rafi shrugged it off. “I’ll be by in half an hour, okay?”

  Another pause. “Angela is off today. I saw her working in her yard when I got home.”

  “Done deal.” His thumb ended the call before she could change her mind.

  He ran the YouTube song again with the sound higher. The kid had perfect pitch and decent pipes, and she was smart enough not to cover copyrighted songs. Lyrics and melody were not there. She needed to study her mother’s songbook, get some classic underpinnings.

  He remained slouching on his secondhand couch, thinking.

  * * *

  Molina was already regretting her decision. She was glad Mariah was staying in her room while her mother was bumbling around her own bedroom, hunting up nonwork clothes that looked good enough for more than kicking around on errands.

  She ended up recycling Dirty Larry odds and ends, like the dr
essy top she wore to Mariah’s performance at the Teen Queen reality TV show and the side-studded jeggings and … she paused in casing her selection of low-heeled boots, loafers, and moccasins on the floor of her closet. There were those kitten-heeled electric-blue pumps Temple Barr had nagged her into getting, on sale, when they were shopping for undercover clothes for Zoe Chloe Ozone and Mariah for that same show.

  She got on her knees to pat down the dark at the back of her closet until she dragged them out. She’d never worn them, needing to minimize her five-foot-eleven height. Tonight … let Rafi stretch his spine a little, kinda like on the medieval rack. She was not kowtowing to male insecurity with him.

  “You look nice,” Angela said when she arrived to house-sit and Molina opened the door, sounding too surprised and then looking dismayed.

  The twenty-something cop needed to master noncommittal demeanor. And not insulting her superiors. Not too nice, Molina hoped. So clever of Rafi to invite her to the Blue Dahlia, her sometimes singing venue. She had an image to uphold with the management there even when she wasn’t appearing as the chanteuse “Carmen.”

  Mariah had finally learned about her mother’s hidden hobby and occasional gigs there. That didn’t help matters either. Molina had plenty more reason to carp at Rafi.

  She slipped out of the house before his car arrived to avoid inconvenient introductions, and slid into the front passenger seat as soon as it did.

  “I need to make an early evening of it,” she warned.

  His cursory glance was as noncommittal as Angela’s wasn’t. “You’ve worked there; we should get fast service.”

  “I’m not sure what you want.”

  “Neither am I, besides the obvious.”

  She didn’t want to put Mariah’s name on the table until they were seated at a dinner table masquerading as a bargaining table. Meanwhile, she should keep things pleasant.

  “How’s the Oasis job going?”

  “Good. The head security guy is leaving and I’m up for the slot.”

  “Already? That’s a suit-coat job.” She eyed his black denim jeans and the Bob Seger screaming eagle graphic T-shirt worn under a black linen blazer.

  “Yeah, like a detective,” he agreed.

  “How’d you get the major hotel-casino gig, anyway?”

  “A well-connected friend gave me a rave review.”

  “A friend? Here in Vegas?”

  “Not anymore.”

  She saw his jaw tighten. Had to be a bruising backstory there. Rafi knew how not to give away emotions, but that had failed him for just a moment. Interesting.

  They kept silent the rest of the way. Not delving into cherished old misunderstandings made conversation harder. Recriminations come easy, Molina mused, regretting she’d imploded when she discovered Mariah’s YouTube adventure.

  She exited the car as soon as it was in Park and headed for the club’s entrance. Rafi and the jingle of his car keys being pocketed caught up with her just outside.

  “Classy joint,” he commented.

  “A contradiction in terms.” She stopped to take in the blue-and-magenta blossom of neon sign shining down on them and smiled. “But I’d forgotten. It is indeed a classy place.”

  Rafi had reservations. Nancy, the sixtyish hostess, showed them to a fringe table with a good view of the band.

  “I’ve never actually dined here,” Molina said after recovering from the shock of Rafi offhandedly holding her chair out. He was on seriously good behavior and by the time they were both seated it seemed natural.

  “Then you can’t recommend anything on the menu.” He was studying it, not her.

  “Nope.” She nodded and smiled at Rick, Dave, and Morris making cool jazz very hot on the small, one-step-up stage. “Eat at your own risk.” She skimmed the menu, recalling eyeing a very different bill of fare with Max Kinsella the other day. She reconsidered Rafi. Another dark-haired guy, swarthier though. She’d always been attracted to blonds, like Matt Devine, when she admitted to such impulses.

  “We go dutch,” she said at the same time Rafi said, “I’ll get the check.”

  The hovering waiter retreated discreetly.

  “Let me play the guy, Carmen,” Rafi said.

  She felt her cheeks flush, then reached for her water glass and toasted him. “You definitely are entitled.” Shock was a good negotiation tactic. “I was panicked and paranoid all those years ago and didn’t give you a fair trial. You know cops. We think we’ve seen it all, solved it all. That can foster jumping to wrong conclusions.”

  “Yeah. Me too.” He nodded to the waiter, who swept back toward the table with genial efficiency.

  “A white wine spritzer,” Molina said.

  “A spritzer?” Rafi gave her a look. “Kahlúa on ice.” As the guy exited, he leaned in and asked, “Watered down wine? Isn’t that … girly for you? Don’t you trust yourself? Or me?”

  “Actually, I upgraded. I’m usually a beer drinker.”

  “Really. That’s changed. A lot’s changed.”

  She let that one lie.

  Rafi had taken out his smartphone and was fiddling with it. She heard the tinny buzz of a musical ring tone. Or something. Oh, no! Mariah’s silly YouTube upload. She recognized the voice. Rafi turned the phone’s bright, sharp image surface for her to view.

  “Yes, I know my kid has made a fool of herself for all to see.…”

  Oh. This wasn’t Mariah. This was an older girl with a not-too-bad contralto, like Lady Gaga before everyone went gaga. Molina was forced to sit on her expletives while the waiter delivered their drinks with a pleased flourish, hers pallid, his coffee dark.

  She leaned across the table, hearing the accusing hiss in her voice only after she’d whispered, “That’s me!” She straightened up and swigged from her wineglass like a sailor. “Where’d you get that film?”

  He smiled nostalgically at the sharp image on his smartphone. “I had old camcorder footage of when you and I were working on your act in L.A. I played around with some home computer sound and film programs and made it into an MP3 file.”

  “And empty what—?”

  “A music file. Mariah’s got your voice.”

  “That’s a dirty trick you played on me.”

  “Talent is not a ‘dirty trick,’ Carmen. It’s a gift. People with talent need to use it, grow it.”

  “She’ll be ridiculed online. ‘The world is mean and man uncouth,’ Rafi, even more than in our day. Sure, she can put herself out there, but everyone with a user pseudonym and password is a critic and an insensitive critic these days. She could get bullied at school. Look at that cheesy glitter eye makeup, the stuffed toys and vampire boys posters in the background of her friend’s bedroom. She’s Miss Hello Kitty in the headlights, damn it!”

  “You’re right.” He sat back. “It’s always a risk to be creative. Kids today can be Justin Bieber or Amy Winehouse, hit or sad, sad miss. That’s why you … we … need to manage this stage Mariah’s going through. It might fade away like morning dew in someplace a lot wetter than here. Or she might have shot at a career.”

  “Is this why you asked me to dinner tonight? To lure me into your schemes, to get close to Mariah by turning her into a … an online product?”

  “No. I wanted to convince you to let me into Mariah’s life, not as her father, just to get to know her, to see that she knows and maybe likes or needs me. That YouTube piece showed me that Mariah does need me, as an advocate, as I was for you. That’s right, Carmen Regina, I got you out of your buttoned-down older-bastard-sister, responsible-for-everything girl pursuing some of your dreams but quashing others, in your own stepfamily. You know you’d not be singing today if it hadn’t been for me.”

  She sat still, fingers twined around the cool stem of her glass, slowing her breathing to a crawl. She’d always had killer breath control. “I’m not singing today.”

  “Not good, Carmen. You needed that outlet. It’s been months.”

  She looked up, burning. How d
are he check into her off-hours?

  “I asked the management, yeah. ‘When’s that great torch singer performing again?’ I asked. The answer? We. Don’t. Know. You had a dream gig here. You could come in when you felt like it, when you had to burn off the pressure of being responsible for a kid and a house and every last civilian on the mean streets of Las Vegas. And you shut it off and shut it down. Why?”

  “Work got intense.”

  “Your after-hours, under-the-table investigations got intense, you mean.”

  She held her tongue.

  “You always were by the book, Carmen. We fought about that even in L.A. I’m no saint, never was, but I come here and find out you’re playing two iffy guys against each other, having them investigate each other. And me. What’s the matter? You don’t trust men, right? Especially men you’re attracted to.”

  She drew on her patented laser-paralyzing, icy-hot blue glare. Worked on the job. “You sure you want to rattle my cage this badly, Rafi? Isn’t there a little something you want from me?”

  “A little support and humanity would be nice. I’m sure Mariah would second me on that at the moment.”

  Her head snapped back, her rarely worn, thin hoop earrings striking her neck. She’d trained herself to be impassive or aggressive, as called for by her job. That wasn’t working here, with Rafi, and it was no longer working at home, with Mariah. Her fingers twined around the other hand, clenched in a fist. It was a prayerful gesture, she realized, maybe even pleading.

  “Give me time.”

  “Thirteen years out of my daughter’s life is way more than enough ‘time.’ I will post your ‘debut’ on YouTube if you don’t ease up on Mariah.”

  “That’s despicable.”

  “Maybe that’s what you need to drive us both to where we need to be, Mariah and me.”

  “All right,” she said, drawing a deep breath.

  “‘All right,’ what?”

  Rafi’s wary suspicion had insulted her at first, and then it had made her very, very sorry. For the first time she could take out and turn over and touch her regret for abandoning him on such an emotional impulse. Maybe the hormonal earthquakes of being unexpectedly pregnant had something … a lot … to do with it.