Cat In A Leopard Spot

Molina hoped Reno was one of those women who, even if she couldn’t stop being a victim in her own life, at least could draw the line at that happening to her kids.

Some did it, and they deserved a medal. Most didn’t, and they deserved what they got: another generation reared for heartbreak.

Molina nodded at the little girl. “Why did you name her Trifari?”

“Don’t you like it?”

“I do. Much better than Tiffany.”

“Yeah. That sucks. Like anyone from where I came from would ever have anything from Tiffany’s. But they might have some Trifari, huh?” She leaned back against the sofa, grabbed her knees, grinned like a teenager.

“I had this aunt, too, only she didn’t care about grammar. But she let me try on her jewelry when I was a kid. And some of it, the glittery stuff, had this little tag that read ‘Trifari.’ I always swore I would get me some of that someday.”

“And you did.” Molina nodded at the child.

“Yes, I did.” Reno slid into a kiddish singsong. “Mommy sure did, precious baby.” She hugged and rocked the little girl, stealing raspberry kisses while the child giggled.

Molina could have felt a lot of things at witnessing this mother-with-child scene: skepticism, anger, sorrow. Instead she just felt helpless. It was a feeling she hadn’t indulged for years. Not until Rafi Nadir had recently turned up in Las Vegas.

Belated rage literally straightened her spine. Reno wasn’t just a struggling single mother from a rotten background, she was a link in safeguarding Molina’s own daughter from the past, and the future.

“So Cher was a basket case. Why would anyone strangle her?”

“She was there? She was easy? Maybe that’s what it comes down to.” Reno’s grip on Trifari tightened until the child fussed in protest. “That’s why I don’t let any man live with us. Too many of them try things with little girls.”

Molina nodded. No argument. Every woman these days knew a woman whose child had been molested, and most molestations happen within the charmed circle of family and acquaintances. Those just were the odds, plain and simple. The only certain odds in Las Vegas related to domestic abuse.

“About this new guy, Vince. New at the club?”

“I’ve never seen him, but Rick had. He’s one of the bartenders.”

“How about this theory? Say someone Cher knew or met at Secrets got big ideas, or was mad at her. Suppose that person followed her to the new place and killed her there to keep everyone from thinking about any suspects from Secrets?”

“You suppose. That’s your job. Me, I don’t know. Could be someone from Secrets.”

“Who?”

“What guy, you mean?”

“Strangling isn’t the average woman’s choice of attack. It helps to be taller than your victim. Was Cher a tall girl?”

“Yeah, as a matter of fact. Here. I’ve got a photo.” Reno rooted in the drawer of the end table that seemed more useful for holding the stuffing in the couch side than putting things on. “One of the club photographers took this.”

Molina took it in turn, a five-by-seven horizontal group shot of whatever girls at Secrets happened to be around. They stood in a ragged line, arms around each other like cheerleaders, most of them wearing only G-strings and the grinning expressions of the happily smashed.

“It was Senegal’s birthday. We all hung around after and broke balloons and sang ‘Happy You-Know.’ That’s Cher there.”

Molina stared at a face slightly blurred by booze and movement. “She looks pretty tall. Five eight, nine maybe.”

“You got a great eye.” Reno nodded, both impressed and suddenly sad. “Cher was about that. I know because she was always bitching about having to wear high-heeled boots. Said men like women who weren’t as tall as they were. What do you think?”

“From the photo, five nine.”

“No.” Reno was grinning like a girlfriend at Molina. “I mean, do men like tall women? You oughta know.”

Molina, surprised, said, “I doubt it. Too many guys are nervous about women anyway. I’d say short girls have it all over us tall ones.”

“Kinda what I thought. That was Cher’s problem. She felt like a horse and acted that way. Turned guys off. And, she was drunk as a skunk most of the time. She wasn’t stripper material. Had to drink to do it. Probably had to drink to do sex too. I think there was, you know, in her family.”

Molina nodded, making aimless marks in her notebook. Scratch a stripper and find a depressing life story. “What other guys hung out at the club?”

Reno curled up in the couch’s slightly soiled corner. “Too bad you can’t interview the police. They went over all this with me.”

“Did they?”

“Oh, yeah. Two of’em. Over and over, everything.”

Molina felt a rare, secret satisfaction. “You remember their names?”

“No, just detectives. Like you. Notebook, the whole deal. Only with IDs.”

“So what’d you tell them?”