Cat In A Leopard Spot

She sat on the coffee table opposite him, a red-headed sprite in aqua leggings and matching big fuzzy sweater whom he wanted to pull onto his lap. Her bare feet were thrust into black patent-leather high-heeled mules that would go fetchingly astray if he made any sudden moves, but he had two murderers to hunt and no time for intermission.

“Maybe you can coax some information on that out of Molina.”

While her eyebrows shot up in disbelief at that revolting idea, he added, “Or your New Age acquaintances. Have you seen anything like this?” He pulled an artsy, mostly blank newspaper ad page toward him, drew his fountain pen and sketched the worm Ouroboros.

Temple got up to lean over his shoulder, smelling faintly of lavender something. Just faintly enough to be interesting. “No. Is it made of metal? Is it a bracelet?”

“Possibly. I don’t want to prejudice you. See if you can track down this symbol, however it’s used.”

“I’m sorry, I’ve been so busy at the Phoenix. I didn’t have a chance to follow up on this Synth stuff.”

“No hurry.” Max stood and then kissed her, because if he kissed her sitting down it might not end. “It’s very important. I hate to leave, but I have to.”

“All right.”

“Lock your door after I leave.”

“Always.”

In the hallway he waited for her dead bolt to snap to, while he planned his next calls.

Standing there, he realized that Devine’s apartment was directly above hers. No wonder they had become friends, or something more than.

Max grimaced. He supposed he owed Kathleen O’Connor a smidge of gratitude for occupying Devine thoroughly enough to make interaction with Temple unlikely, and even a threat to her well-being.

It wasn’t often a mortal enemy did him a favor.

Everything was acting up at once. Molina was personally investigating Cher Smith’s death. Kitty O’Connor was turning the screws on Matt Devine. Rafi Nadir was butting his nose into everybody’s business, maybe because he had something to hide, like murder one. And the Synth had possibly set up the Cloaked Conjuror’s leopard as a murder suspect.

Where next?

He checked his discreetly talented watch. It was getting late. Time to put Vince into long-term storage and to get out his long-lost soul brother. Who? Time would tell.

Baby Doll’s was three tiers down from Secrets as strip clubs go.

Max had decided on an off-the-wall approach, partly motivated by that mother of invention, necessity. He went in as an Elvis wannabe, cannibalizing bits of the Elvis impersonator outfit he had put together a few weeks earlier.

Shades, sideburns, poufed and sprayed black hair. Who could see beyond the cartoon to the face beneath the icon’s mask?

He would get a lot of attention, yes, but it wouldn’t be hard to talk to people.

He slouched into the joint as if he were used to going everywhere in this weird getup. Bell bottoms, boots, and mod-pattern shirt.

“Got a gig down the Strip yet tonight, Elvis?” the bartender asked.

“Naw, I did a couple of the fringe casinos. That’s it. Tourist stuff mostly.” He grabbed a fistful of peanuts and stuffed his craw. “Came here to meet a girl.”

“We got ’em.”

“Not that way. Friend of mine. Good little peeler. Sometimes goes by Delilah.”

“Had ’em, seen ’em, not any here now.”

“Or…Mandy.”

The bartender stiffened, then shook his shaggy head. He looked about two weeks off of Wine Bottle Row himself, and now he looked scared. “I only been working here a couple of weeks.”

Max laughed at his own accuracy. “Anybody here who might have seen her a couple weeks ago?”

“You’re not the only one who’s asking. Maybe you two should get together.”

Max turned in the direction the guy’s single eye that focused was looking.

Maybe…not.

If he had gone for the over-obvious, Molina had settled for same old, same old. Worn jeans, weathered jean jacket, black turtleneck sweater, suede red, white, and blue shoulder bag big enough to tote a revolver. He spotted, and admired, the chipped polish on her fingernails. A nice touch. More makeup than the usual nil, but applied slap-dash.

She looked like a weary, low-rent PI who was used to trailing unfaithful husbands to motels roaches wouldn’t rent.

Right now she was talking to a blowsy stripper who should have retired two decades ago, making notes with a stubby pencil on a cocktail napkin while nursing a Bloody Mary.

Max wished he had a camera.

“You ever take on freelance muscle?” he asked Wino Willie over his shoulder while he watched Molina shout her questions over the noise of the taped music. He could just about read her lips.

“Yeah. The bouncers come and go as much as the girls do. Guess they’re all bouncers.” He cackled.

“Guy named Raf.”

“Yeah. I seen him.”

Max spun around, engaged at once. “Yeah? Big guy. Well, thick guy anyway.”

Willie was nodding his head on his stringy neck. “Now that you mention it, this Raf first showed up the night of the Incident.”

“Incident?”