"I'm not 'sparing' you. I was not Darren Cooke's last lay, that's all. I spoke to him at the brunch, and I do have a clue to why he might have despaired that night. But it doesn't have anything to do with sex, believe me."
Michelle frowned. "He only marked the belongings of women with whom he had sex."
"Well, maybe it was wishful thinking in my case, because it sure didn't happen. Listen, I am currently caught between two men. I do not need any other liaisons cluttering up my already-subdivided heart, mind and body."
She leaned back in her chair, as if to reassess Temple, then sipped her silken wine. "For some reason, I believe you. He never much cared for petite women, or redheads. Then why were you at his brunch?"
"He'd heard Savannah Ashleigh"--Michelle rolled her eyes; that one she would never believe innocent of anything--"call me Nancy Drew."
"Nancy Drew?"
"All-American girl detective from the century's earlier decades. I've . . . stumbled into cases of wrongdoing and have a bit of a reputation as a crime-meddler, if not a crime-solver, around town."
"Crime?" Michelle's back straightened into a ramrod.
"Your husband thought I could help him; I said I'd try, but I warned him I was an amateur. He took me into the bedroom"--Michelle's back stiffened even further--"to show me some letters he kept in a manila envelope."
"Blackmail."
"In a sense. Maybe just vitriol. The writer claimed to be an adult daughter of one of his earliest liaisons. She was bitter, of course, and taunting. Sounded quite obsessed, and was certainly hounding him from city to city. I told him he needed the police to handle this, or a very expensive and discreet detective agency. He was... quite broken up about it, that he hadn't known about her and that now she hated him. I told him she could be a twisted fan who only imagined she's his daughter, but I agreed she might be dangerous, and must be found and charged with harassment."
Michelle had clapped her corded hand over her mouth early in Temple's recital, her eyes darkening with deep emotions, disbelief, regret, fear and sorrow.
"I don't know why he marked me a conquest," Temple said softly. "Oh, as I left, he made some sort of veiled suggestion, which I rather huffily rebuffed. But it was half-hearted, and nothing more than that ever happened between us. I maybe spent forty minutes with him, between some chitchat at Gangster's and the tete-a-tete at the Goliath."
"I disagree with your self-assessment, Miss Barr; you seem to be quite sensible on matters criminal. As for the date on your card, perhaps, I now think, it was wishful thinking. If he would do it once, I must wonder how many times since we have been married it was wishful thinking too. He was no longer young and perhaps other young women turned him down. How tragic, that he would keep up the lie of betrayal to me! But then, I always knew his obsession was more pride than need."
"Why would you take on a man with such a handicap?"
She shrugged in a graceful Gallic manner that said more than any number of sentences. He was as he was, it said, and I loved most of that.
"I know," Michelle added, "that he was an excellent father. Of course, having nannies takes much of the burden of parenthood away. But he loved our Padgett Cookie like no one on earth, not even me. She was so innocent, so trusting. She gave him what you call 'unconditional love.'
It made him feel secure, and I sense that he was making a genuine attempt to change his ways.
"Then, to hear of this unknown daughter who so reviled him! It would have hurt him very much, because he didn't know. He perhaps began to feel that Padgett would turn on him someday, no matter what he did. Yes, you did have a clue to his state of mind. It must have been very tortured." She turned her bland glance on Temple. "And so have I been, since learning of his death. Suicide. I would never have suspected it of him."
"I don't think that my turning him down was enough--"
"Of course not, Temple." She laid a cold, bony hand on Temple's forearm. "He had ego enough to bounce back from such a shock, and I suspect he'd had more than one such shock of that nature in recent years. As you said, he was automatically reverting to his seducer self. But these letters--have the police got them?"
"I don't know. They don't confide in me. I assumed they'd be found in his room."
She shook her head. "Darren was very clever at hiding things, from everyone. He had to be.
These he would have safeguarded more than anything. But I will ask the police. I will at least have them look for this . . . pathetic daughter."
"And how will you say that you knew about them?"
"Do not worry, my dear. I will not implicate you, not after you tried to help Darren with his problem. I will say he mentioned a letter once, casually, and that now I wonder."
"You're pretty clever yourself."
She nodded. "One had to be to marry Darren. Now--" She settled low in her chair and brought the mostly full wine goblet to her bloodless lips. "Tell me about these two men who divide your loyalties. Oh-la-la! What a love life. It sounds fascinating. Perhaps I can be of help."
Chapter 24
Fall of Another Card
Molina wanted to see them downtown. Now. Then she hung up.
Temple and Matt hung onto the phone in her kitchen, ears jammed against the shared earpiece, cheek to cheek, with a bundling board of molded plastic between them.
Temple had done all the talking. Not that there had been much to say. And now the line was dead.
"You're sure we have to do this?" Matt asked Temple.
"You're the arbiter of right and wrong. I thought you'd be cheerleading me to sell myself down the river."
"I'm in worse shape. I might have heard the last person to see Darren Cooke alive arrive at his suite."
"At least you're not the one his wife invited over for pasta only to confront you with evidence that you were the last person to sleep with her husband."
Matt's light tan turned ashen. "Molina's going to ask us why we didn't volunteer this information before."
"We were cowards, plain and simple. You couldn't be sure that your information was relevant to the case, and I was all too sure that mine was, except that it made me look like an idiot."
"You could call it a case of Prejudice and Pride."
"That version of the title does not have a ring to it, and our excuses won't soothe Molina's wrath. In her place I'd be pretty put out with us too."
"You know, that's the first empathetic thing you've said about her."
Temple hung up the dead phone, tired of the guilt-inducing drone of the dial tone, although it perfectly suited her mood.
"There's one thing I'm not going to tell her, even now."
"What's that?"
"It's pure supposition. I'm convinced that Darren's daughter has been stalking him. I bet she's in Las Vegas, and I'm going to find her."
"Temple, that's worse than a needle in a haystack, that's one young woman among one million."
"She wouldn't be far away; she'd want to watch him sweat. I keep thinking that Domingo the flamingo artist being in town just when Darren Cooke was working up his show was perfect timing for someone. Domingo's legion of volunteer flamingo-planters, all with undocumented backgrounds, would provide a perfect cover for a twenty-something Jill the Ripper. I'd really like to nail Domingo's ex-mistress Verina with the role, but she's past forty."
"Why do you have it in for this Verina?"
"She took my hat."
"Remind me not to sit on your cat. I can't imagine what revenge you'd think up then."
Matt ambled into the living room to sit beside Midnight Louie on the ivory sofa. He was wearing khaki and almond; with his blond hair and brown eyes, that made him look both cool and warm at the same time. Temple was starting to regret she'd insisted they confess to Molina.
There were much more personal matters to discuss this evening.
Temple joined him on Louie's other side.
Matt rested an elbow on the sofa arm, his face on his fist. "You know, this demented daughter wri
ting ugly letters to her father, calling it stalking, makes me wonder if that's what I'm doing to my stepfather. Whatever he's up to is none of my business. Why I am dogging his trail?
Am I a stalker?"
Temple perched on the sofa arm behind him.
"Sure," she said cheerfully. "I don't think you've even figured out yet what you'd do if you actually found him. You might even be a violent stalker."
"That's the scary part." Matt looked up.
"You wouldn't send him hate letters, though."
"Hadn't thought of that. But, no. I'd want to see him face-to-face . . . and then I might strangle the bastard."
Temple tsked. "Not fit language for Our Lady of Guadalupe Church, I imagine."
Matt looked amused. "You can imagine all you want. Priests use strong language in private to express anger, just like anybody else."
"Not all priests."
"No. Some are perfect practitioners of every commandment. When it came to language, I was more often among the lambs than the sheep."
"I don't doubt it," Temple answered, patting his head.
Matt looked up at her again, visibly trying to decide if the gesture was motherly, comradely or something else.
She stood with a grimace. "No time to wallow in comfort and examine our consciences.
We've got an appointment at the police department. Hey, I'm wearing leggings. Why don't we take your motorcycle."
"It's Kinsella's motorcycle."
"That's no reason not to take it; besides, Max gave it to Electra."
"Some things you can't give away."
Temple stopped by her front door. "Somethings, or some people?"
"It's a rather intimidating machine."
"That's why I want to ride it, silly. Conquer my fears."
"That knit jacket won't cut it; I finally had to find something to replace my windbreaker. The street gets cold these November evenings."
"I've got a great little leather jacket that should be just the thing."
"You don't have a helmet."
Temple paused, then lit up. "Electra's not using her 'Speed Queen' number."
"I've never had a passenger before. The new weight might throw things off. I might dump you in the street."
"I'm little, as I often lament. I won't add much weight. Mister, please, I ain't heavy."
"You aren't my brother," he answered sardonically, "but you're sure acting like a whiny kid sister."
"You never had one of those, although I admit I was everybody's kid sister in my family.
Consider this a making-up-for-lost-time experience on your part."
"Bratty, demanding kid sister is more like it. I'll run up and get my jacket while you get yours.
And sturdier footwear is advised."
Temple pranced into her bedroom. What, did he think these dainty heels were all she owned? She had some kicky ankle-high boots for horseback-riding-if-it-ever-came-up hidden somewhere. She hadn't ridden a horse in years, so it was only in the farthest, lowest, darkest part of her closet that she found the tumbled boots and the cream-colored leather jacket.
What had replaced Matt's unexciting navy nylon windbreaker, Temple wondered as she kicked off shoes and struggled into boots. Was she going to be visited with Electra's vision of Matt-black leather? Temple shrugged into the elderly jacket, which was a teensy bit snug. Eek!
Just touch thirty and your weight was creeping up already.
She hurried back to her door as Matt arrived from upstairs. Her prediction had been right, no macho black leather for golden boy. He wore a sheepskin jacket, and looked a little sheepish.
"It's synthetic," he explained. "The real stuff is pricey, and I don't like to know a sheep died for my sins."
"Radical, and politically correct!" Temple took his arm as they walked to the elevator. "Looks good on you too. Molina will swoon and Electra will be rabid that I got to see it before she did."
He shrugged her arm off, embarrassed as usual by the thought that what he wore might attract attention. Or women. "I needed something warmer and inexpensive."
"So practical," Temple cooed, unable to resist teasing.
Yet Matt's sternly practical instincts had steered him right to the most flattering item. As far as Temple was concerned, black-leather, Marlon Brando motorcycle chic had just been dethroned.
"Molina's working late," Temple noted as they stepped out into a Maxfield Parrish twilight, the sky a warm indigo-blue bowl in the distance.
"Do you think she ever stops?"
"Only to sing for her supper."
Mutual memories of encountering Molina as the house thrush for the Blue Dahlia made them smile.
Matt unlocked Electra's shed and tossed Temple the racy silver helmet labeled speed queen.
"I love it! I feel so kicky, right out of Blackboard Jungle."
"You weren't even born when that movie came out. I'll start the cycle and ease it out of the shed. You relock the shed and hop aboard," Matt suggested.
Temple skittered outside, just happy to be there. The motorcycle was so huge close up. It dominated the small shed like a rodeo bull temporarily trapped in a chute before breaking free to kick loose in the arena.
And the noise! She quickly pulled on the bulbous helmet and fastened the chin strap. She knew when she lowered the sinister, tinted visor that she'd see night all around her and that nobody could see her face. Cool.
"These helmets don't have transceivers built in," Matt shouted, visor up, from amid the sound and fury of the revving Hesketh Vampire.
Temple nodded broadly. They'd be unable to communicate. Verbally.
The Vampire came rhur-rhuring out, then paused to gargle disgruntledly. Temple ran to padlock the double shed doors, then turned to face her moment of truth.
The motorcycle seat was longer and broader than she had thought. But she had ridden horses, great huge beasts, so this would be a piece of coconut cake. Maybe. The lift-over was as thigh-stretching as a horseback for her short legs, and she settled onto the hard leather seat with an unintentionally punishing slap. Next, she couldn't find the footrests, not until she stretched her legs way out and pointed her toes. Of course there was nothing convenient to hang onto but Matt, and her passenger position wouldn't really work unless she scooted up right behind him, which she did, snaking her bare hands into the faux-sheepskin side pockets of his jacket.
"Ready?" he shouted.
She just tightened her grip and then the Vampire leaped into the street like a runaway horse.
Galloping gallons of gas! She had never noticed that motorcycles tilted this way and that so much. As they turned into the street, Temple felt almost parallel to the pavement and clutched onto the flannel pocket linings until she thought they would rip out. The wind, absorbed by Matt ahead of her, still had plenty of pummel left in it for her.
And the traffic loomed all around them like an encroaching herd, pale circles of headlights and highly polished rumps... er, rear fenders ... of neighboring vehicles.
Temple curled her fingers into the lining of Matt's pockets for dear life.
Luckily, nowhere was far from anywhere else in Las Vegas, which still adhered to its simple desert-town layout.
"Oh, look!" Temple couldn't help shouting to the wind. "Domingo's flamingos are lit up at night!"
She actually unclutched and removed a hand to point, but a Ford Taurus sped by so fast she was almost about to be known as "Knuckles" for the rest of her life.
She replaced her hand in a hurry, remembering that Matt couldn't hear her no matter how well she projected. A motorcycle was no bicycle built for two; it was the eye of its own howlingly cold hurricane. No matter how cozy motorcycle couples look, pasted to each other as they are, she was finding it to be a solitary ride.
Soon, though, the Vampire turned into the deeper dark of the parking ramp behind the Las Vegas Metropolitan Police Department--again almost scraping Temple off on the concrete floor--and purred into an empty third-level space.
Te
mple sighed her relief as the engine rumbled to a muffled roar, then quieted entirely when Matt turned it off and kicked the stand into place. Temple wasn't sure her legs would ever desert their wishbone position; she would be doomed to bowleg around like a broncobuster forever. Her lovely shoe collection would look laughable at the ends of her pathetic, hooped legs. She would be drafted for croquet games the rest of her life!
Unbending, she tried to hop off; Matt caught her before she could fall over.
"Took me two weeks," he said, "to get comfortable on this silly thing."
"Will it be safe here?" Temple wondered, eyeing the impressive machine as they walked away.
"I locked it; that's the best you can do. If I ever have to tell Electra it's been stolen, I'd hate that."
"You'd most hate having lost something that was once Max's," she added astutely.
Matt stopped to stuff his buff leather gloves in his jacket pockets. "Yeah. I should have told you to wear gloves."
"That's okay. I had to hang onto your pockets anyway. We better forget about our mode of transportation and start thinking about how to handle Molina."
"She'll handle us, as always," Matt said dryly. "I never saw anyo ne so seriously devoted to her calling, except maybe me. Who wants to go first?"
"I should. I have the guiltier secret. She'll be mad, and rightly so."
"Temple. Don't look like an abandoned basset hound!"
"Oh, thanks! But I ain't gonna like this."
"I'll be there." He put his arm around her shoulder.
A sudden warmth and confidence spread through her chilled frame. This was better than a motorcycle ride any day.
Inside the garage stairway, signs directed them down to the ent ry level, where they had to check in with the desk sergeant. One just didn't waltz into the back door of a police station; that would mean too many could simply waltz out.
The large entry area was brightly lit, a shock after the darkening night and the parking ramp's blackness. Its wall of windows faced onto the concrete area between this building and the Hoover Dam-sheer face of the opposite building.
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