Matt was tempted to answer, “Out at Area fifty-one,” but refrained from paraphrasing Bob Dylan’s early landmark line “out on Highway 61.” Temple had assured him Highway 61 actually had been a major Minnesota highway to Dylan’s Iron Range hometown of Hibbing back in the ’60s. Like a lot of major fabled highways, including the iconic Highway 66, 61 was mostly history now.
And now was Matt’s turn to pump Electra. “You mean you haven’t seen Max around here? I’ve been so busy working nights and giving out-of-town talks that I didn’t realize he was doing another disappearing act.”
“I worry about Temple. She waited around months for him to show up once, and now she’s waiting around again.”
“Oh, Temple’s pretty resilient. I wouldn’t worry about her.”
Electra patted her short white hair, which was au naturelle today instead of being sprayed to match her floral-print muumuu. “Maybe you wouldn’t, but I would. It’s no fun waiting to see when a significant other is going to bow back into your life. That’s why I had to lose number three.”
“Husband number three?”
“Well, I’m not talking about gerbils.”
Matt blinked, because just then he had seen paired pinpoints of red flashing between Electra’s well-planted ankles. Did she have…rodents in the place?
“Do you keep gerbils?” he asked.
“No! And I didn’t keep husband number three either. Those kids were such a happy couple when they moved in here. I just hate to see that go the way of all relationships.”
“If all relationships deteriorate, Electra, it was just a matter of time.”
“Maybe, but I marry ’em in the Love Knot chapel downstairs and I like to think some of them do better than I did. You aren’t going to be in the market for a JP anytime soon, are you?”
“Me? No. I don’t exactly have a social life with my work hours.”
“Then get a different job.”
“I don’t see myself doing this radio shrink work forever, but —”
Electra leaned forward, hands fisted on her flowered knees, pewter eyes sharper than honed steel. “You never know, Matt. You never know when something will take life away just like that. Like a bolt of lightning. You don’t want to be so absorbed in making a living that you don’t live.”
Between her slightly swollen ankles, the baleful red eyes regarded him as intently as she did.
“What makes you think I’m in danger of losing anything?”
“We always do, as life goes on. And I hate to see you young people so absorbed in running to this obligation here and galloping to that event there. You’re just rushing your lives away.”
Matt relaxed into the canvas sling. Electra was only bemoaning the up-tempo pace of modern cell-phone, belt-beeper, jet-speed, overbooked life. She didn’t have any special insight into any of their lives, only that they seemed more isolated than her generation had.
And of course she had no idea of the secret waltz they were all doing to survive the fixed attention of one elusive psychopath.
He was glad that Electra was safe, then wondered if she was.
“I’ve still got time to worry about dating later,” he said, hoping that Kitty had bugged the penthouse too, and her jealous spleen had heard his landlady bemoaning his lack of social life.
Maybe it was Kitty’s eyes glowing ember-red beneath the sofa. Like a rat, she could probably gnaw her way in anywhere.
He excused himself, fought his way out of the chair, and left with one last glance at the innocuous cardboard tube in Electra’s entry hall.
He hoped Molina could get further with that sketch than they had.
Max called Temple at four in the afternoon, when her shoes were off, her bare feet were tucked under her on the office chair, and her computer screen was blank because she had run out of words. Or thoughts. Or energy.
“What’s up?” she asked, trying to sound upbeat.
“Short notice.”
“Is that some kind of sneaky personal slur?”
“Never. I was hoping you could dine with me tonight at the Crystal Phoenix.”
“The Phoenix, why?”
“Because all your grand remodeling plans are now open to the public.”
“How nice of you to remember.”
“It wasn’t hard. They made all the papers.”
“Well, six.”
“Including USA Today and the Washington Post.”
“They both happened to be planning a Vegas update travel story. The timing was right. How did you know about the Post?”
“Web search. ‘Crystal Phoenix. Fabulous show. Brilliant PR woman.’ Just type in the right key words and the Web will take you anywhere.”
“Just murmur the right words and I’ll go anywhere. How dressy?”
“Very.”
“Hmmm. We must be going to Nicky’s place at the top.”
“It’s a surprise.”
“It always is when you feel you can afford to appear in public.”
“Apparently my star has faded. I’m not in the world-wide demand I used to be.”
“That would be wonderful!”
“Wouldn’t it? Seven P.M. I’ll meet you in the lobby. Please don’t mistake a Fontana brother for me.”
“Max, I never thought of the resemblance before, but darned if you don’t make a natural — what would it be, thirteenth?”
“Unlucky number for dinner, so forget that.”
Temple did as she got ready for her evening out, trying to forget the depression that had dogged her since a certain lieutenant had slapped a certain plastic evidence bag onto her desktop.
She took a long, neck-high bubble bath.
She did her nails.
She threw shoes around on her closet floor, finally sitting down and trying them on one by one.
The new Crystal Phoenix attractions were a rousing success. She thought, What next? She had a kicky new car. She thought, Why care? Matt Devine had gotten both too close and too far in the last forty-eight hours. She thought, Who cares? A ring that had once been lost, now was found. She thought, What next? Why care?
“This girl has a depression,” she told a pair of purple leather high heels she had rejected and tossed back into the closet. Her whole life was like dressing for dinner: she didn’t know what she wanted, what would make her happy, or if anything would.
Once just knowing that Max dared to take her someplace public was a triumph. Once glimpsing that Matt wanted her was a thrill. Once worrying about where she lived, what she could afford to drive, who would pay her for freelance work was a concern, a worry, a set of circumstances to overcome.
Now she thought, Is that all there is? And could hear Peggy Lee’s world-weary voice sighing the same question to music.
Missing Link
After a nice long nap preceded by a concerted pedicure, I wake up with all my ruffled edges soothed, particularly my journey-roughened cuticles.
The place reeks with that absolute quiet that means you are the only living thing on the premises (except for assorted illegal aliens of the vermin variety).
Last I remember my Miss Temple was a tad out of sorts because I had presented her with an object that was both a prize and a conundrum.
Sorry, that is the way I operate. Look, I could be one of those uncouth dudes who think bringing home a limp lizard is enough to thrill the lady of the house. At least I brought her something with some high-carat value, not to mention tantalizing links to crimes past and future.
What more could a high-heeled gumshoe of a little doll want? A grasshopper?
That reminds me of my mama’s long-forgotten nickname for me. How embarrassing!
I am glad there were no witnesses who knew me to this humiliating incident. This thought leads me to Miss Midnight Louise. I shudder to think the variations of demeaning nomenclature she could work on the nickname “Grasshopper.”
I have naturally been absorbed by the females at opposite ends of the spectrum in my life: Miss Te
mple, my sponsor and ward, and her utter antithesis, the evil Hyacinth. Now I decide I should look up Miss Louise, admonish her for leaving the scene of the crime solo, and flaunt my trophy from the expedition.
I immediately trot into the office and hop up on the desk to collect the prize.
It is gone!
I check the French doors. Night has already drawn its shades on the day. I see my own green peepers reflected back at me, thanks to the desktop lamp Miss Temple has left on in her haste to gather up drawings and Exhibit A and go.
I have no idea where she has gone, except that it requires the wearing of A-list shoes. But I know where I must go. To the Crystal Phoenix to roust my defecting (I could say defective, but that would be too catty) partner and give her a piece of my mind.
Partners indeed! She has not the first notion of the word.
Moonlighting
“What’s the opposite of a harvest moon?” Temple wondered aloud.
“A sowing moon?” Max asked.
Their window table allowed a panoramic view of the glittering icons of rival hotels and casinos, an entire constellation of mythical beasts like the Sphinx and a giant gilded lion, and flocks of neon flamingos.
“I’ve never heard of a sowing moon. I can actually see the real thing over your shoulder.”
Max swiveled in his captain’s chair to look. The moon was low yet, just above the bristling skyline of the Strip establishments. It paled in comparison to the acres of manmade illumination. Still, it was big and solid and warm, like a sun fashioned from a wheel of cheddar cheese.
“Is the moon over my shoulder a lucky sign?” Max asked, swiveling back.
“You never used to mention luck.”
“I never used to need it.”
Temple sipped from her exotic martini, the latest fad in cocktails. Every fad came to Las Vegas first, and left it last.
“What is the occasion?” she asked.
Max reached into his side coat pocket like an ordinary man and pulled out a small, perfectly square box.
He placed it by her knife tip.
Temple hesitated. She was beginning to regard certain items of jewelry as akin to striking snakes.
“It’s not what you think,” he said.
“How do you know what I think?”
“It’s fun to pretend. You might be thinking I’ve had a duplicate ring made up of the one that was lost.”
“You could, and you would.”
“And you wouldn’t like that. Some things are irreplaceable.”
Temple nodded.
“You could assume that this is the bauble from Fred Leighton you wore as a ‘disguise,’ shall we say, at Rancho Exotica.”
“That would be incredibly extravagant.”
“I agree. So. Open the box. It won’t bite.”
Temple did, gazing at the ring inside by the flickering light of their table candles.
The stone was small, green, solitaire.
She looked at him, questioning but mute.
“I thought at this point you’d trust modest more than anything else. That’s all I can offer. Modest guarantees.”
Temple nodded again. Max making the modest gesture was somehow heartbreaking.
“It was mean, what she did,” he added.
“Molina?”
“I won’t forgive her for it.”
“How did you know —? Not Matt?”
“He was furious with himself for keeping Molina’s confidence. We agree completely. She never should have ambushed you like this. It goes beyond police work. I warned you. She’s desperate.”
“To accuse you?”
“No. I’m just a means. To clear herself.”
“Clear herself?” Temple absorbed the implication. It wasn’t the first Max had made.
She took the ring out of the box, held the slender band between her fingers. Such an innocuous ring, neither engagement ring nor wedding band. Something simple you might give to a child on her confirmation.
“It’s an emerald,” he said. “Not a bad one, but small. Sincere.”
“A piece of the Emerald Isle.” A piece of his heart and soul.
He shrugged. “I don’t know what I can promise you any more, Temple. I’ve always been a master of the impossible. Now even the possible seems out of reach.” He moved his silverware, inward, outward, both futile gestures, one negating the other, marking time, wasting energy.
“You and Matt, conferring? About me. And Molina?”
“Strange times make for strange alliances.” Max straightened in the chair, spun to look at the gibbous moon, spun back. “I’d even say he was your best bet, better than I, except he’s even more dangerous for you now than I am. And that’s going some.”
“Max, I am not contemplating a change of allegiance.”
He didn’t seem to believe her, or, if he did, it didn’t seem to make much difference.
“I’ve got to go underground again.”
“Canada?”
“I can’t say. I won’t be around to protect myself.”
“And me?”
“I hope I’ll be protecting you. That’s my priority.”
“You’ve always tried to protect people. I hope you include yourself in that.”
“I have to, don’t I? First piece of business.”
“Speaking of business…” Temple pulled a small box of her own from her slightly larger evening purse.
“For me? I hope it’s not cuff links,” Max said. Max the chronic wearer of turtleneck sweaters.
While he opened her box, Temple slipped on the slim ring. It fit best on her third finger, left hand. Max knew her ring finger size. He had left her no choice but an ambiguous one.
“This was the charm that Courtney the secretary wore at the canned-hunt ranch.” Max turned the slender charm in his fingers so it caught the candlelight. “She vanished after the arrest. Where on earth did you get it?”
“Master Midnight Louie. He came limping in this morning and threw this down on the bed. Do you think he knew what he was doing?”
“Impossible. He was out at the ranch. He must have found this in the area where everyone was milling around — man, woman, and beast. He’s an alley cat. They’re used to biting their way into garbage bags, through plastic and tin foil and into tin cans. He must have snagged it then.”
“And kept it and waited until I had a drawing of this very image on my desk and then plopped it down on my bed, just by…alley catness?”
“Yes. Because if you’re trying to make me believe that Midnight Louie pulled a Lieutenant Molina and tried to ambush you with a lost piece of evidence…then he should be climbing the career ladder at the Las Vegas Metropolitan Police Department. Although I would enjoy seeing Molina outmaneuvered by a cat.”
“Max, what’s really going on?”
Their dinner orders had been taken so not a soul was hovering around to interrupt them. Max rested his elbows on the table anyway, to better to lean forward, lower his voice, and still be heard.
“I just finished giving you a speech a few days ago about how someone in my profession has to keep confidences. Somehow, I feel no obligation to keep this one now.”
His caustic glance ricocheted off the ring on her finger. His anger had nothing to do with her or the ring, Temple realized, but everything to do with the Tiffany ring kept in a sandwich baggie at the LVMPD, as everybody now knew.
“You know how I encountered that sad young stripper, Cher Smith, the night before she was murdered. Strangled in a parking lot at another strip club, Baby Doll’s, the ‘new’ venue I’d advised her to find?”
Temple nodded. “Another Sean to avenge.”
Max ignored her parallel. He would neither deny nor defend his obsessions. Being a magician from an early age had sealed that fate.
“Molina put me there. In that strip club, on a collision course with Cher Smith. That one move also made me the last person known to have seen Cher Smith alive.”
“Molina? How?”
“No way!”
“Yes. She had a personal problem. Wanted me to check out a certain guy. Can you guess who?”
It didn’t take Temple long to remember the uncharacteristic fear in Max’s eyes at the Rancho Exotica, his strange insistence that the ranch guard leave the scene of attempted murder before Molina and the police arrived.
“Rafi Nadir,” she guessed. “That creep who just had to lift me out of the Jeep as if I were a southern belle. I thought you’d strangle him. And then, later, you protected him, I never did understand why.”
“Understand now.” Max’s voice grew so deep and intense Temple had to lean inward to hear it. “I wasn’t protecting Nadir. I was protecting Molina. And I hated every second of it.”
“You? Protecting Molina?”
“She wanted me to keep an eye on this Nadir guy. That’s what got me into the strip clubs, where he worked as a bouncer. That’s how I met Cher Smith. He was hassling her in the parking lot and I stopped him.
“You know the rest. I took her home. Tried to tell her how to get away from Nadir at least, from stripping too. The next night she died in Baby Doll’s parking lot. Strangled.”
“Nadir, you think?”
He shrugged. “He’s a bully, likes to throw his weight around on women. He’s always on the strip club scene like an arsonist at a five-alarm fire. Trouble is, strip clubs were his scene.”
“Apparently hunt clubs are too.”
Max reached out to touch the small thin gold charm, a mere outline really. “Not so much hunt clubs, I think, as the Synth.”
“The Synth? He’s connected to the Synth?”
“He’s working as a bodyguard at a site I think the Synth is targeting.”
“What has all this to do with Molina, other than her asking you to keep tabs on a creepy guy?”
“The ‘creepy guy’ is the father of her child, and doesn’t know it.”
Temple opened her mouth. Closed it. Closed her eyes. Tried to picture this. Failed. Opened her eyes.
Max was regarding her with the ironic gaze he was famous for.
“And I thought my life is complicated,” she said, taking a swan dive into her martini.
Midnight Louie 14 - Cat in a Midnight Choir Page 21
