Cat In A White Tie And Tails

He stood up. Listened. Was it a water pipe? They could make that noise in an old building like the Circle Ritz.

He made the brief rounds, but the kitchen and bathroom taps were twisted tight.

Back in the main living area, he sighed. No clocks that ticked. Maybe something on the patio. He rarely went there, had never furnished or used it. He wasn’t used to providing for himself. He’d called rectories home for too long, had been spoiled by the parish housekeepers for too long. He’d have to watch that self-centered domestic side of himself when he and Temple were married.

He wandered to the dark row of French doors. Danny had insisted on installing shadow-box blinds over them for “privacy.”

Matt flipped the lock and opened one door. The pecking sound was louder.

Not a bird. A bird would fly away at this human approach.

Was it a lizard or insect of some sort making a maddening mating call to some rhythmic internal clock ticking?

No. The sound came from above. Something was spinning, something attached to the roof overhang above one French door.

A … mobile? A wind chime?

Certainly a shadow against the darker shadow of night.

Matt moved into the glow of the tall parking lot lights to reach up, touch, stop the spinning object.

A shoe.

A light, glinting shoe strung up like a wind chime. A petite silver satin pump with a glitter of gold crystals buttoning the ankle straps.

Temple’s shoe. He’d remembered her fussing about not finding a mate to the “real” shoes she’d chosen.

That had gone missing before the wedding.

That someone had gotten into Temple’s unit to make it go missing and had kept to call her very own and had broken into his place, again, to display it here like a prize, like a serial killer’s ritual object.

The hairs on the back of Matt’s neck rose. A chill of murderous rage crawled up the back of his head. He knew the threat was deadly, and he knew who, but he didn’t know where.

Luckily, he knew just how to change that last condition. Right now.

Chapter 56

Rematch

Molina jumped when the doorbell rang. She never jumped. She’d schooled herself to never show surprise.

This wasn’t a surprise. It was something … worse. Even though she’d expected this caller, she’d never expected opening her door to this man for this purpose.

When she unlocked and cracked open the big wooden front door, he was turned away, back to her, studying the street. In the glow from the porch light above the door—a warm, old-fashioned incandescent bulb because she saw too many mean streets under harsh fluorescent lighting in her job—his hair looked Black Irish dark.

What the heck was he doing here? She had to ask herself that for the fortieth time. She liked blond men, even dirty blond like Dirty Larry, the ex-narco undercover guy. Ideally golden in all respects, like Matt Devine.

So who had she gotten involved with? Molina had never wanted to look too closely at the answer to that question. She stared, barring the doorway, until he turned to face her.

“Come in, Rafi,” she said, stepping back.

“Make sure you ask the right one in,” he said, eerily paraphrasing one of Mariah’s stupid fave bloody vampire film titles.

“You’ve been studying Mariah’s Facebook page.”

“And Google-plus too.” Rafi grinned, stepped over the threshold, paused. “You sure, Carmen? I’m your worst nightmare.”

She pulled back, grimaced. “Don’t flatter yourself. You’re just a teensy little bad dream.”

“Diminutives don’t thrill guys. Just a tip on something you may have forgotten after all these years.”

She fought back an embarrassed flush. She hadn’t meant to—No going back on stupid comments.

“Where’s Mariah?” he asked as he followed her into the living room, knowing the way now.

“Where she always is. In her bedroom texting, Googling, Internet-cruising, Facebooking.”

“Singing?” Rafi asked.

Molina turned to let him see the face of her frustration. “That too.”

“Sit down,” he said. “Can I get you a beer?”

She stared at him. “My house. I’m the hostess.”

Rafi pointed his left hand toward his right shoulder. “The fridge is visible right there. I know how to do twist-tops, or find a kitchen church key. Why don’t you sit down, Carmen, breathe deep, and realize I’m here to help. And bring you a cold beer.”

She cleared her throat. Actually, that would help. And her acute law-enforcement summing-up eye had noticed he’d look a lot buffer than Dirty Larry, but safely middle-aged so Mariah couldn’t crush on him, unlike Matt Devine.

God, what am I thinking?

She buried her face in one hand, both rueful and annoyed and about ready to say, No go, get outta here, Nadir, the way she’d dismiss a snitch.

A dewy-cold bottle appeared in her free hand. The sofa in need of replacing shifted as Rafi sat down beside her. “This is about Mariah,” he said. “She’s at the age when her dreams, her path, even her mistakes are forming. Let’s not mire her in ours.”

“Dreams, or mistakes?”

“Either one.”

“Why do you care?”