Cat In A Topaz Tango

“Blond never did it for Zoe. She lost the competition’s final performance as a blonde. Black is the best disguise.”

Temple absorbed all the bad news. Given the prominence of teen and preteen female pop stars, it was only natural that talented kids like Mariah would want to try it. Back in the film industry’s silent days, pretty girls as young as fourteen flocked to Hollywood, snagging adult roles. Many had their mothers, as stage-happy as their daughters, along as managers.

Temple studied Molina, grim, hollow-eyed, strained. She’d obviously been ill, and now this. Of course, a starstruck girl would hardly want even a healthy police lieutenant as an accomplice. Mother and daughter’s common singing talent was working to separate, rather than unite, them. That was a pity. Or . . . could it ultimately carve out some common ground?

Would Matt want his fresh new fiancée reviving this oddball persona? Why not? He sympathized with single mother Molina and knew Temple had a nose for the nefarious.

“I’m between freelance assignments,” Temple said. “What do Zoe and me do first?”

“First, I squeeze Crawford Buchanan of any iota of information the creep might have.”

“That sounds . . . rewarding.”

“It better be. An interrogation room is the place for it but we have no time. Alch has softened him up by now, so a tough impromptu grilling here should do the job.”

“The Crawf and all his works do need explaining.” Temple smiled to picture him on the receiving end of a Mad Mama Molina grilling.

Mariah’s absence was troubling, but probably a harmless kiddie prank that would resolve quickly. Watching Crawford Buchanan’s slimy soles being put to the fire before the happy ending? Priceless.

Grilled Crawfish

“Lieutenant,” Buchanan whined, “I’m just a local media personality. Ask anyone around town. I’m a pussycat.”

Molina studied the man sitting in Mariah’s desk chair. He resembled a pretentiously hip wolverine. He was just this side of greasy, one of those small, dandyish men blessed with huge egos and an old-time radio actor’s deep voice.

“Aren’t pussycats predators?” she asked.

“Me?” For an instant he became a mouse. “No, sir! I mean, ma’am. I’m an impresario. I give these kids a chance to sing on my radio show. Do a two-minute routine: ‘Vegas Voices of Tomorrow.’ It’s going to lure American Idol out here next season. Paula, Simon, Kara, the black guy. Our local talent will be presold.”

“You have more than a radio show. You have a Web site.” Molina hadn’t sat. She liked to loom. She bent to activate the mouse roller ball. Mariah’s computer flat-screen flashed open on Buchanan’s Teen Queen Dream ’n’ Scream site. “Looks a lot like you’re selling teen girl pinup photos.”

Molina was clicking through photo after photo of kids who’d gotten themselves up to look like Miley Cyrus or Britney Spears before she became Britney Bombed-out. She paused the cursor on one eager young chipmunk face highlighted with glitter makeup.

“This one is my daughter. My way, way underage daughter. How’d she get her photo on your site?”

“Uploaded it. And . . . and lied about her age.” He swallowed hard.

“You’re saying my daughter is a liar?”

“I’m saying she knows how to spin a résumé. They all do it, add a few years. If you wait until you’re eighteen on a singing or acting career nowadays, you’re Methuselah.”

“Why are you running this site?” Molina asked.

“That’s the site motto. See? Teen Queen Candy-dates. Tomorrow’s Stars Today. “

“You do this for free?”

“No, the site costs something. The girls pay a small fee to be featured.”

“How small?”

“Uh, just one-fifty.”

“One hundred and fifty dollars? Where’d these kids get that kind of money?”

“Usually their parents. Every mom’s a stage mother these days.”

“Not this mother.”

That shut him up for a few precious seconds.

“I’m a DJ,” he said. “I also cover Las Vegas attractions, pop culture. I can’t help running across new talent. There are reputable agents in L. A., Phoenix, Seattle, Denver, the whole Left Coast, who check with me on fresh talent here in Vegas. In the old days, a young talent had nowhere to go but nowhere.”

Molina straightened. Her back ached, as well as her side. Nowadays, at her age, it numbed her rear to perch on a stool at the Blue Dahlia to sing the oldies. She was a never-was who fiddled around sometimes. The creep had a point about ultra-early starts. That didn’t mean wanna-be performers weren’t targeted by predators.

“The Web is cheap, accessible,” Crawford was saying. “These auditions are legitimate. All the major media want fresh talent. Network talent shows, cable TV, the networks, movies. An ordinary person could be king, or queen. The wanna-bes may have more of a chance than ever before but they still need a platform and a facilitator. That’s what I do.”

“You’re the next Dick Clark.”

Crawford Buchanan ran a neat manicured hand through the froth of silver curls at his nape. Even wolverines preened. She supposed someone found them cuddly and cute.